Ashtuzual
by Borys68
Summary: It is 2981 TA and two Rangers, one of which is Aragorn's uncle, break up a slavers' caravan in Northern Eriador. The world is Tolkien's, stupid ideas and mistakes are mine. OCs galore, possible cameos by embarrassed canon characters. Rating for brutality, smut unlikely.
1. I - Rescue

AN: Orkish and Black Speech inserts are either so well known that anybody with some knowledge of the ME universe knows them or can be guessed from context. Where neither case applies I will give a translation. Helenamarkos and Zoop provided me with most of the Orkish/BS vocabulary used in the story.

Dwarrows influenced by Soledad and Valandhir.

Orcs influenced by Helenamarkos.

Hobbits influenced by Dreamflower02.

Upper Hoarwell Valley, 2981 TA early May

Aravir and Tarkil winced at another female scream. The slavers they were tracking were having their fun. Being able to hear and not being able to do anything to help was soul wrenching for the two Rangers. They could only grit their teeth listening to the raped females' cries. Fifty and fifty five years old, respectively, they were old enough not to throw themselves at the slavers immediately but to bide their time. Yet they were much, much not old enough to bear the situation without having their blood on fire. While patrolling northern Eriador along the upper reaches of the Hoarwell, to the north of the Trollshaws, they had come across a group of eight to ten slavers – mostly orcs and some men. That had been two days ago. They had followed them and waited for the opportunity to attack and release the three to five slaves, all female, a mix of mannish and dwarven women. That was their guess as to their number from the cries they heard and the glimpses of the column in the lightly wooded countryside. They were wary to approach too close and never got a good view of the group as to be able to count and identify everybody. The weather was against them - the overcast days allowed the orcs to move all night and then all day about without much hindrance. They still needed to rest, though. The column made very good time and evidently was heading towards the northern Misty Mountains – between the High Pass and Gundabad - where their slave markets could be found. The Rangers felt that the weather was to change soon and waited for their opportunity. They expected that tomorrow was to be their day. An unobscured Sun in a cloudless sky should force the orcs to take a longer rest during the day. The sun should also impair their sight and improve the chance of surprise. Hopefully it would not be the manlings on guard when they attacked.

The next day brought the desired weather. They had to circle the slavers camp, however, to stay downwind. This almost brought them out of range of the post march session of tormented female's cries. The conditions were perfect. The late morning sun was a pain to look at and they had it at their back. A quite strong wind blew in their noses and made enough rustling and other sounds among the vegetation as to drown out any non-twig snapping noises they might make. They dumped their packs some one hundred yards from the copse in which the column broke for camp and slithered through the grass and bushes towards the densest growth where they expected the orcs to take respite from the sun. They spied the orc sentry sitting on an overturned log and not very observantly gazing in their general direction. Aravir nodded to Tarkil who killed the guard with a shot from his bow.

They crept forward. After they passed the body they could see the camp. Some of the sleeping figures on the ground were evidently male, some female, and several could go either way. They could not cross out the possibility of there being another slaver on guard on the other side of camp but then again, few things ever were perfect. The plan was for Tarkil to stay at the edge of the camp with his bow, while Aravir was to charge in and lay on the enemy with his fell sword Spleenripper. Tarkil's job was to keep watch against "that other guard" and prevent anybody going for Aravir's back. Should any slaver make a move for the females he also was to shoot to kill to prevent any becoming a hostage against them.

Aravir quietly rushed the camp while Tarkil shot two of the prone figures which were evidently orc. They could not rule out that a manling could be a slave too. Even if the arrows would not kill due to awkward angle they would still maim and improve the chances of the Ranger in melee. Aravir decapitated the first sleeping orc before the dying scream of one of Tarkil's victims aroused the rest. He focused on putting the remaining slavers out of action leaving it to Tarkil to shoot any which staggered up again. After the second guard charged out from the bushes on the other side of the small and got an arrow for his trouble. This released the elder Ranger from overwatch duty and he sprinted to join the fray. Within moments resistance was over leaving three stunned and wounded opponents. Aravir broke the unwounded arm of one slaver and pegged the arm of another into the ground with a captured sabre. He noted Tarkil similarly incapacitating another. He then moved towards the multiracial gaggle of women. The younger Ranger cut their bonds with his dagger and moving from one to another made a count - three dwarrodams, a woman and ... an orcess? Bending over her he stopped, not sure whether to slit her rope or throat.

Seeing his hesitation and guessing the cause one of the female dwarrows cried out - "No, no, let her be!".

– "She's one of us!", she added.

Meanwhile Tarkil had finished maiming the two wounded orcs and one man. They were now defenceless. He gathered some knives and waved to get the females' attention – he pointed to the knives, the fire and the bleeding and prone bodies – "all yours ... ".

While cutting the orcess' bonds and listening to the rising screams of the tortured slavers Aravir took a closer look at her. She was scared of him for sure - her wide open slanted, red-brown eyes were darting all over the place. Her quickened breath was one gasp after another. Her leather knee length tunic had seen much better days and was ripped and holed in many places. Lanky black hair, dark brown skin, with darker patches – bruises? - clawed hands and feet, powerful jaw, flat nose, pointed ears, a wealth of scabbed cuts all over her body and dried blood on her thighs rounded out the picture. Scrawny. Probably half-starved, but what did he know? He had never seen a female orc before. - "No pieces of metal or bone stuck through her skin anywhere", he noted. – "Probably too poor for that", he decided. He straightened himself from the crouch and made a motion showing the orcess that she was free. She startled him by springing up and Aravir instinctively moved the knife to block her attack. But she ducked under Aravir's knife and rushed to the fire. She grabbed a branch and pressed the smouldering end into the Mannish slaver's privates. The scream which joined the howls of the other two slavers could probably be heard at Mount Gundabad.


	2. II - Getting to know one another

Aravir noticed that one of the dwarrowdams and the mannish woman appeared to be in better shape than the others. The cleaner and less beaten dwarrow crouched over an unconscious fellow dwarf which looked to be in very poor shape. Very badly beaten, with barely scabbed marks and bloody rags all over her. He knelt next to her while Tarkil was checking that those who were supposed to be dead actually were and hauled the bodies to the leeward part of the camp.

- "She had had enough". – The dwarf volunteered. – "This morning she tried to get the slavers to kill her. Almost got her wish." – She said with a bitter and sad voice. – "This evening they'd have their last sport with her and she'd return to the Earth and Stone. Who are you?"

- "We are Rangers. I am Aravir son of Arador and my companion is Tarkil son of Aithon. We try to keep these lands free of Shadow. We had to wait for the weather to change, we are so sorry we couldn't save you earlier ... "

- "We are grateful for saving us anyway. I'm Bergdis, daughter of Borur, at your service" – she bowed her head; - "she" – she pointed her chin at the lying dwarf – "is my cousin Gudrun daughter of Robur and" – she turned her head to check what was going on next to the fire – "the one cutting off the orc's ear is Ingrid daughter of Faram. The Mannish girl is Leri and the Orcess is Ashtuzual."

- "Two of you look less done in ... "

- "Virgins." She pursed her lips as if she was to say something but changed her mind. " A ... Better price. All the ... raping was of Ingrid, Gudrun and Ashtuzual." – Bergdis stated in a flat voice.

- "This Ashtuz... Ashtaz ... Ashtur ... Ashtuzual ... can she be trusted? "

She shrugged – "to some degree yes. But what can I say? After we – the dwarrows – were taken from a settlement to the east of Emyn Uiaul, north of the big lake, our band met another group of slavers. As this bunch of scum deals in females only they traded our menfolk – four of them – for Leri and the orcess and a sword of average craftsmanship. Ashtuzual was treated just like us – raped and beaten the same. She was not nasty to us, even friendly, I'd say, as far as such conditions allowed. The manlings liked to hurt her" – she glanced over her shoulder again – "that's why she's shoving that stick into Samlet's ear. That one really had treated her rotten."

After speaking with her on her cousin's condition Aravir got up and conferred with his colleague for a moment. They decided to make camp at the same spot. They decided to risk it as Gudrun's screams of the morning had not attracted any attention.

Tarkil seemed to have had enough of screams, female or male, and barked:

- "Kill'em off and lets start getting organised."

Some moans and shrieks later Tarkil continued – "Check their things for anything useful – weapons, food, medicine, if there is any. Clothing you could use. You know better than we do what they had. Put that in piles. Any water nearby?" After nodded confirmation from the females – "You two" – he pointed to Leri and Ingrid – "take some pots, sand them and bring them back with water. You" – he pointed at Ashtuzual and wavered for a second, sharing a quick look with Aravir who gave a sign of consent - "collect more firewood."

Sometime later Aravir took Leri, Ashtuzual and Ingrid to the stream to bath. They were equipped with the Rangers' soap and their spare shirts. The girls also took some clothes the orcs and men had looted to wash and use themselves.

Bergdis remained at the camp with Tarkil to tend to Gudrun's injuries. The older Ranger had five years of experience over Aravir in being sewed up and thus a slightly better notion about sewing up others. With visible embarrassment he explained to the dwarrowdam that he would have to examine and treat her cousin everywhere. So he asked her for permission and forgiveness for such liberties. Berdgis looked at him without comprehension and then her face crumpled and she broke into tears. He gently and slowly embraced her and she sobbed uncontrollably into his jerkin for a few minutes. From her rasped sobbing he gathered that after three weeks of being constantly shamed and dishonoured he was treating them normally and that she was grateful for that. He silently swore that anybody calling any of those girls orcfuckpallet or orctoy - insults he had heard towards survivors of orc attacks - would get a knife in the ribs. A dull knife. After she calmed down they began to wash and tend to her wounds with water the other females had brought.

A similar although less dramatic scene was taking place at the stream. Aravir laid out some captured weapons on the bank, for the dwarrowdam, woman and orcess to grab "in case of something happening". Although the advised reaction to "something happening" actually was running back to camp. He hung a blanket on a low branch and sat behind it facing away from the stream.

A teared up Leri explained to a curious Ashtuzual that "it's NOT ordinary fer lads to see the lass' bits so 'e's being gentlemanly and proper like".

While shifting through the loot from the slavers the Rangers shared short exchanges with the females and learnt their stories. The slaver band's leader was an orc called Club Head. The three dwarrowdams came from a nameless settlement – nameless as it was temporary, set up for several years only. It sheltered a few families which were excavating a rich bog iron deposit. They smelted it on the spot and sent the spigots to be worked into implements by relatives in the Ered Lindon. The slavers had raided the settlement - a run through and grab who you can affair - and taken adolescents as captives. Bergdis was not taken by orcs like the other two and thus escaped defilement, the mannlings who caught her having more consideration for profits. The three dwarrow women expected that the menfolk - at work at the time of the raid - had survived. They also hope that the older women - their mothers, sisters and aunts - also had survived. It had been a run and grab raid and those not grabbed immediately like them should had survived. And they had heard the clang of weapons while being carried away. Would their families had stayed there after the raid they did not know – but they had relatives in the Blue Mountains to stay with if their families had not survived or were not to be found.

The Rangers also learnt that while Bergdis and Ingrid were of the Broadbeams clan Gudrun – although Bergdis' cousin - was a Longbeard. The dwarrows mentioned this as an example of clan intermixing of the third generation of Erebor exiles which originally had been pure Longbeards. This upset the Dunedain's worldview that a dwarf is a dwarf is a dwarf. As to chances of a pursuit group seeking their release - they assumed that there probably had been one but it could had been thrown of course by the meeting with the other group. The dwarrowdams were sure that having a choice whom to follow the rescue group would have chosen to follow them over males.

Leri had been abducted while picking mushrooms outside her village in the North Downs. Her folk were not of the Dunedain, but of the Hill Men. These previous subjects of the Witch King had drifted southwards into the post-war emptiness of the Lone Lands. Surprisingly she spoke Westron as her father was a potter and traded with Bree. Although of the same racial stock the Breelander's and Hill Men languages were no longer intelligible so Westron was used for communication. She had been originally abducted by a different group, purely orc but much better and smartly controlled than Club Head's.

Ashtuzual had the longest contact with slavery, having being sold to stave off starvation of her clan three years previously. She'd fetched the price of "almost a whole deer, a fox and two hares" for the Poisoned Arrow clan she came from. Her Clan had fallen on hard times and as an orphan she was the first out of the door. The times of hardship for the clan began with eight hunters, the best the clan had, agreeing to join a Black Warg clan raid on dwarrow trade caravans. The traders' guards had beaten off the attacks and the Poison Arrow hunters were sold as slaves by their traitorous brethren. The loss of these lads had ruined the clan's fortunes and hunger ensued. Ashtuzual knew the whole story as she had encountered one of her enslaved clan mates two years later.

She spent two years with the Crooked Spear clan, then a year as a camp fetch and carry and occasional bed warmer with a raiding band from the Yellow Fox. Two weeks ago Club Head's slaver's bought her to sell as a breeder as she was now of age to be whelped. Some Misty Mountain clans felt themselves to be on the path to greatness and needed ever more warriors, putting lasses like her in demand.

The band's intention was to sell the dwarrows first - at a Stonefoot dwarrow clan hold in the Etten Moors. Leri and Ashtuzual were to sold at the first orc den that would want them and then Club Head planned another trip West. The band constantly quarreled among themselves over an unsatisfactory catch, the men and the orcs respectively accusing one of damaging the value of the goods and the others of timidity.

During the busy afternoon clothes were washed and mended, food examined and repacked. All females had some sort of minor injuries which were treated with whatever medication was on hand - be it orcish or mannish. Gudrun was bedridden however. She was unconscious from the morning beating. Tarkil only prayed that she had no internal injuries as there was nothing he could about them. In such a case she would be dead soon. He used the local timber to prepare a stretcher for her. The planned order of march was for the females to carry light packs and take turns with the stretcher while the Rangers carried their full gear and watched out for trouble.

As they neither could nor wanted to take all the provisions they found with the slavers they decided to have a cold "eat all you can" lunch, and then two hefty stews for the evening and morn meals. Waste not want not was a well understood virtue and three good meals would do wonders for the females' strength.

The men were happy to find an axe – Aravir was fairly sure he heard Ingrid whisper "shoddy craftsmanship" to herself when she saw him using it – and fell several trees. The Rangers prepared a second, large fire at the leeward end of the camp and when it was burning nice and hot threw the first orc corpse into it. They were astonished to hear a high pitched screech and immediately turned their heads to the source – Ashtuzual had dropped the packs she was carrying and was gaping at them with terror in her eyes. Seeing that they were looking at her she bolted into the forest. They took off in pursuit.


	3. III - Cultural exchange

Terrified Ashtuzual cursed herself for her stupidity. She should had seen that these were not _shara_ sooner. The mannlings had behaved so clan-like towards them that it had her fooled. Oh, where did she have her eyes!? So stupid! They were too tall - but how she was to tell? Damned Mannlings were so much taller than her anyway. They also had those cruel grey eyes legends warned about ... The evil _tark-hai, _the lackeys of the vile_ golug-hai. _She kept on running, all the legends and bed time stories running through her mind. One vision of what awaited her once she was caught made her miss her step and almost take a tumble. Then she remembered it was only the _golug-hai_ who did THAT, the _tarks_ weren't THAT cruel. Nonetheless she shuddered at what the _tarks_ were capable off. Why didn't the other girls run? Didn't they know what these monsters were about to do them?! She gracefully darted through the thickets, picking the denser parts to slow down the much larger Ranger. But to no avail! She could hear the merciless killer catching up. She screamed as the _tark_ tackled her and brought her down. He threw her over his shoulder and carried back to the camp in the deepening twilight. The sight of his cold grey eyes pushed her over edge.

Tarkil threw the orcess over his shoulder. She went hysterical. She cried and sobbed and moaned and babbled in a mix of common and orcish. The words he picked out as repeated the most often were tark, fuck, pain and kill. Back at the camp together with Aravir they tied her up and went back to the corpse burning. They didn't have that much wood prepared for the task and they wanted to finish before the favourable wind abated or changed. They had no time for nonsense. Who'd have expected her to be so squeamish over her kind being burnt? And they were burning the men too, for Elbereth's sake! The other women kept an eye on still unconscious Gudrun and the stew. They also tried to sooth the orcess but she kept on a steady stream of whimpering. After throwing the last body into the fire Aravir walked up to the girls to calm down the Servant of Darkness and find out what her problem was. She screamed, tried to get away, pissed herself and fainted.

Bergdis took command.

- "Whatever she sees in you it is something terrible. She's out of her wits, that's for sure. I've never seen her so cared before, even with the beatings and other things which happened."

– "What's to you what makes her react that way?" – She eyed them warily. – "There's no love lost between my folk and the Rangers, but you've been anything but decent to us, her too, and I've never heard anything _very_ bad about your kind. From reliable sources, that is ... as some stories would have you selling us to Mahal knows where. We'll take care of her while you try to keep out of her sight, huh?"

Appalled that she feared them so – although they had no idea why – the two Dunedain made themselves busy preparing a rough stretcher for tomorrow. Leri brought them the thick stew. They could hear the women talking quietly, bunched around the fire and next to Ashtuzual which they cleaned up and dragged closer to the warmth. They roused her but things stayed calm. They had peviously removed her bonds and the orcess lapped up her stew keeping the Rangers in view of the corner of her eye. The minion of the Dark Lord was visibly jittery.

After some time Bergdis walked up to and sat next to them. She had a twinkle in her eye and the corner of her mouth twitched.

- "Orcs hold strange beliefs about Manlings, it seems." – she began. – "_tarks_, that's how she calls you, not _shara_ like those three bastards and Leri, are the blood curdling stuff of orc legends. "

Aravir beckoned her to speed up.

- "the short of it is that orcs are certain that after battle _tarks _ burn orc bodies because they like their orcflesh roasted. And after eating it go into a bloodfrenzy. They rip prisoners apart. They rape prisoners. The girl was expecting a very unpleasant death on your hands. To be raped and eaten at the same time." – the dwarrowdam could not but smile at the disturbing yet absurd image of the two soft spoken mannlings - one forcing himself on Ashtuazal, the other chewing her ears. – "When she came to she expected to see us beaten bloody crawling about and trailing our guts behind us, while you were making yourself merry ... "

- "By the way, what are you planning to do with her? And with us? You said you'll take us back. How? We can talk around the fire, we got the girl sloshed with some orcish booze Club Head kindly left us. She's out cold."

The agreed plan was simple. They decided against sending Ashtuzual to her kin yet as with her there would be two pairs of bearers for stretcher duty. They would head directly south towards the Great East road. Gudrun would be carried by alternating teams of females while the Rangers were in combat readiness. Once reaching the road the orcess was to be sent to her kin to the east while the Children of Iluvatar - and of Aule too - were to follow it towards Bree, hoping for a caravan heading in that direction. Preferably dwarrow as it would put the three dwarrowdams with their people, freeing the Rangers to take Leri directly to her village. And even if the caravan was not headed for the Ered Luin the dwarves would take care of them. Ingrid and Bergdis assured the Rangers that they would know whether it is safe or not – the way they talked about the Firebeard clan put that kindred as not be much of an improvement over Club head's band. With no caravan they would head west along the road, hoping to catch up with one.

Tarkil guessed that they should reach the road at a point equidistant from Rivendell and the nearest Dunedain hold in the Angle. Not that the Rangers shared this piece of information. They kept those locations to themselves. They did not intend to head to either unless they were in danger or Gudrun's state advised it.

Ashtuzual came around to the soothing voice of Ingrid forcing stew upon her.

- "Eat girl, eat." – she said gently, - "this soothes nerves."

The abomination of Melkor had a bowl in her hands thrust into her hands before she could protest. The dwarrows swore by Mahal on the nerve settling properties of thick stew and intimidated the orcess into eating. Ashtuzual had a spoon in her mouth before it came to her that nothing had happened. She was in one piece and unharmed, so were the others. Jerking her head about like a sparrow looking for seeds she sought out the _tarks. _They were quietly working on something at the edge of the camp.

- "Shhhh" – Bergis calmed her down. – "They won't hurt you. We'll keep you safe. Put down that bowl now and tell us why are you so scared of them. ... good girl ... now take a swig of this. So you say they rip limbs off? And that orc ears are a delicacy? And what else?"

AN: You see poor grammar or typo – comment or send PM. I don't have a beta for this and I'm an EFL person.


	4. IV - The Run to the South - Part I

Aravir had the second watch. In the pre-dawn twilight he saw Ashtuzual get up with a groan. She noted his presence and that he was on guard duty.

- "Have to pee and drink".

He gestured towards the stream.

He wondered if the women could be able to take part of the watch duties off them. At night the orcess' vision – she had immediately noticed him in the shade outside the light cast by the fire - as well as sense of smell could be useful ... he hit his forehead with the palm of his head. At night! This made him notice their oversight. They'd be marching during the day. How would Melkor's creation stand it? He had to talk with her once she was back. But could they trust her to stand watch? No, he said to himself. If they had doubts this meant that they did not, it was that simple.

Ashtuzual woke up. Her head hurt. Anxiously she checked herself for harm – there was none. It was the booze not the _tarks_ which gave the pain she felt. She _had_ to pee. She crawled up and saw the blue watchful eyes of the Ranger, the one called ... Arvir? Aravir? Avrir? He didn't move towards her just sat in the shadow under the tree which was a Good Thing. She stated her business and he waved her on. She checked the camp – all the women accounted for, the dwarrows' snoring drowning out any sounds made by the other Ranger, sleeping at some distance from the gaggle of girls.

She went over yesterday's events, the evening in particular, in her mind. She was surprised for Bergdis speaking up for her. Had the situation been reversed she probably wouldn't had done that. She had helped the _shakutarbik_ and the _sharlob_ to spite her owner and to spread the chores, beatings and rape over more bodies. In the previous band she was a _snaga_ just as she was now. But even though she did chores for the whole band her owner Orcobal kept her for himself and she was an orc and a member of the band, even if the lowliest. She was a step above any enslaved _shara_ or _shakutarbik_ who were nothing but temporarily held merchandise or food. Their fate nor welfare did not interest her at all. Under Club Head she became shared property. And abused too. As long as she was alive and could work Club Head did not care what was being done to her. To add insult to injury he did not mind the _shara_ picking on her. What little loyalty she might had given her owner and the band she replaced with hate and disdain.

From the moment the hostile takeover by the _tarks_ – as she now knew they were – put her under new ownership she couldn't grasp what was going on. The improvement in feeding she could understand – under Orcobal she had leant that if one bothered and looked around for such buyers, then one could find somebody ready to pay a premium for well kept slaves - a much better return rate than for the half-starved heavily beaten wretches the lazy and stupid Club Head delivered and sold to the first willing buyer he chanced upon. But arming them? The effort put into tending Gudrun? By her experienced eye making her saleable – besides for warg food - required a few weeks of dedicated care and good food. She understood that for _sport_ the Rangers had a choice – depending on views on profit maximisation - from between two and four lasses in reasonably good condition. They did not have to stick their cocks into the bloody rag Gudrun was at the moment. Killing her would have saved everybody the trouble and the dwarrow herself further suffering. Yet they allowed the other _shakutarbik_ to tend to her. As far as she could tell by her sense of smell, they hadn't taken any of the girls yet. Strange.

Yesterday's evening had undermined the accuracy of legends and common wisdom. Although it might had been that those two tarks, that day, did not roast the meat for eating (a waste, really) and did not want to go berserk (a good thing). She wondered about slipping off and seeking out other orcs. But she was afraid. One was the fear of the Wild itself. She was neither trained huntress nor warrior nor trapper to be able to survive on her own. The other was that with her brands she always could be identified as having been a slave. The moment this became known the orcs she ran into would be tempted to enslave her. And being an outsider she'd always be on the bottom of the food chain. She was too small and too weak to fight her way higher. Her own clan lived "somewhere far north" – that's all she knew. She decided to stay for a few days at least – with such food she'd gain much strength over a week's time.

They left camp in a small column. Tarkil took point. The walking females took the middle. They all had light packs and something sharp on them. Ingrid and Berdgis, having some training, were issued ex-orc sabres. Leri an axe, as she felt most confident with it having wood-chopping experience from home. Ashtuzual got a knife only, but Aravir had a sabre for her if she proved trustworthy. Ashtuzual was also well wrapped against the sun and sported a hood donated by a deceased orc's massacred cloak. They alternated in carrying the stretcher with Gudrun. Aravir took the rearguard.

Aravir let his mind wander and after a few minutes his brain and eyes had reset to their default settings. He was ogling the girls. The dwarrows and the orc were more less the same height, just over four feet if he eyeballed them correctly. But there the similarity ended. Ingrid and Bergdis were powerfully built, with short legs and relatively long torsos. Born sprinters, the realisation unexpectedly came to his mind. Although the height of a human child they were broadly built, their arms easily the thickness found on Manish males two heads higher. Not much of a waistline which, combined with the hips and shoulders being of similar breadth, made judging dwarrow gender indeed difficult. And they had incredibly thick hair. Small eyes, big ears, big noses, heavy jaws - a sort of masculine looking face. Ashtuzual had more Mannish proportions, with longer legs than the dwarfettes. But she was of much lighter built. Just Like a human girl, he would say. True, she was slightly bow legged, but he'd seen much worse among the race of Men. Women wore dresses or skirts, so he would not know. She also had a slight stoop – but was that habit or built he could not say.

Compared to them Leri was nothing remarkable. The daughter of the Men of Darkness was far from canons of Numenorean beauty – a head or more shorter, curly brown hair and blue eyes instead of straight raven tresses and grey eyes, and more curvy than was the norm among the women in the Angle. Or was the pleasant looking curviness due to lesser height? He put analysis of curviness aside, to some more appropriate, less crowded circumstances.

AN: You see poor grammar or typo – comment or send PM. I don't have a beta for this and I'm an EFL person.


	5. V - The Run to the South - Part II

The column made good time southwards. Gudrun regained consciousness during their second day and slowly recovered, her bruises yellowing. One evening before sleep Tarkil asked about the females' expected homecoming. Leri teared up over _saudade_, a term in her language for longing, for her family. She said that everybody, well, almost everybody will be overjoyed over her being alive, with a sour puss or too murmuring about her reputation. With there being no boy currently sweet on her there was no room for heartbreak. For some of her folk being brought back by Rangers would be as bad as being abducted by orcs in the first place.

With a giggle she showed them a cheap leather armband which was to ward against Evil Eye, Rangers' included.

Ingrid had much more to say on the subject. She began with a grim smile of sorts.

- "Had we been from other clans, or even other parts of our kindred you'd have three dead bodies. For a dwarrow maiden to be enslaved that's bad enough, that's an incredible dishonour."

- "Half of the time the family wouldn't have wanted her back even", she continued. - " If married the husband could dissolve the marriage just by declaring it ended. Goes both ways, wives could unwed captured husbands if the they wanted too. And even if accepted by the family she'd never find a good job. Some low level menial at best. Very, very unlikely to marry as the stigma passed on the couple. And raped at that? We would have slit our throats before you could stop us, you would have had no chance for that. "

- "So what happened to – how did you put it – the other clans and parts of your kindred?"

- "Smaug happened. Two hundred years ago Smaug – a powerful dragon - descended on the mostly Longbeard hold of Erebor and massacred the dwarrow there. The rest fled and wandered about Rhovanion and Eriador. Terrible times of living under the open sky, of starvation, of elvish and mannish indifference, of orcish harassment. Many of the Wanderers – as they've become to be called - died. And - no longer protected by earth and stone or travelling in well defended caravans – the danger of abduction was high. In those days many were abducted and then rescued, with a dwarrow being taken and freed several times not constituting an unheard off event. Now think that the Wanderers were remnants of families once numbering tens of dwarrows. Which now could be counted on the fingers of a single hand. Having your wife, mother, daughter, sister or niece return from slavery alive meant more than the fact that they had enslaved and dishonoured. One no longer had ten, twenty, thirty family and cousins. Often they were your only family. And that overruled everything else. Even the dworc in their bellies if they had been unlucky. "

Aravir had never heard this hideous word before; the very sound of it made his teeth hurt, but its meaning was clear from context.

- "What happened to them."

- "They were cleansed or drowned after birth. But some are suspected to have been kept, if their father's features were no so apparent. The ears could be dealt with a knife. Passing a child as a foundling in those days was easy – lots of orphans around. And it was impolite to ask too many questions where did a child come from – all were cherished to best of whatever means there were. Not that many bothered to ask in those days, or so the older folks say."

- "And the women? "

- "They went back to their lives. The only thing which mattered was that they were alive. But like I said, that's us, the Erebor Wandering Folk. The Western Exiles is another name. And now the Blue Mountain dwarrows too, Broadbeams mostly. As there are so many Exiles in the Blue Mountains intermarried with the Broadbeams. Elsewhere – like I said – even today dwarrowdams would had killed themselves if raped like us, or – if only enslaved – upon their return they'd slide to the bottom of society. Well, we _will_ get odd looks until our beards grow back ...

- "What?"

- "we get our beards back. To shame us further the scum shaved us, all three of us. But it'll grow back. Like I was saying, before the beards come back we will get an odd look or too, but that's all. It is not polite to talk about capture by orcs, or anybody else for that matter. It happened, we are back, it is impolite to talk about it, end of story. "

Ashtuzual did not understand much of what had been said. Orc society was different and her knowledge of it limited by both age and having been enslaved while still a child. What she did understand was that the _shakutarbik_ shared orcs' sentiment of _once a snaga, always a snaga_. And that dwarrow girls should kill themselves after being raped – an idiotic notion. What a fucked up bunch they were! She kept this thought to herself.

She kept many thoughts to herself during the brisk march. Especially that many of them were confused and she had nobody to share them with. The _shakutarbik _and_ sharlob _seemed to believe that the _tarks_ will release them. Are they too stupid too live, she wondered? It was a fantastic ploy to obtain their cooperation. The mannlings had living gold in their hands and surely they wouldn't just throw it away. Although the southern direction of their trek did seem fishy – that's where the _tarks_ and _golug hai_ lived! Some things she knew from Orcobal, some from the quarrels in this band. Breedable _shakutarbik_ were a rare and – among those who knew their value - a highly sought for commodity. Breeding them was hard, no more than two whelps out of one could be expected, as they either died in childbirth or managed to kill themselves. And getting those two dworcs could take five or six winters! While a well fed orcess could have three whelps every two winters for many winters. But the dworcs apparently were worth it. She'd never seen one, but Glush described them – almost with reverence - as the ideal warrior. The height of a tall orc but almost twice as broad, strong like a bear. Could see in dark much better than a half-mannish _balaak. _The_ tarks _were ingenious – instead of whipping them on their way they conned the _shakutarbik _to run to their fate. She smiled - it did well for a _snaga's_ status to have a clever master. Or masters, in her case – she hadn't worked out yet which one was the boss.

Like every _snaga_ ever made the moment her task was complete she pretended to be busy, to make herself scarce or to loaf. When caught she'd be put on the next tasks with a kick or cuff and much yelling. Here she was requested – more or less gently – to help others. She allowed herself to be commanded by the other women as they were evidently favoured over her at the moment. The lack of beatings, a half-playful cuff at the head or even curses was astonishing. She noticed that the others did not need to be told but helped out the slower or more tired members of the group of their own accord. It simply was expected. On the third day she reluctantly started showing initiative.

AN: You see poor grammar or typo – comment or send PM. I don't have a beta for this and I'm an EFL person.


	6. VI - Angst followed by happiness

Ashtuzual's world collapsed around her. Again. The _tarks _ran into a caravan of the _dagrîhtolal flokûrz _ and let all the _shakutarbik _and the _sharlob _go with them. And now the Masters did not want her. They wanted to send her away.

She was on her knees clutching at Aravir's and Tarikil's legs and wailing:

- "I will be a good _snaga_. I will be a betterer _snaga_ than I before! I am sorry to disappoint Masters! How can I please Masters? I will whip myself to please Masters! I will be the bestest _snaga _evah!"

The two Rangers were at a loss what to do. After an uneventful week long trekk and two days of walking West they had the good fortune of a large dwarrow caravan from Erebor to the Grey Havens catching up with them. The caravan's guard 2nd in command was Groin son of Robur, Gudrun's brother. Bergdis daughter of Borur knew him personally too. There was no need to ask for help in getting the dwarrowdams' home, the dwarrows gave the impression that they were ready to take them out of the Mannlings care _per fas et nefas_. Amidst choruses of "at your service" and "at your family's" the sons of Numenor arranged for the escort of Leri to her village. Shaken over his sister's torment and rescue Groin swore by his curly beard that he will personally take the mannling girl home.

After entrusting most of their charges to the dwarrows and biding them goodbye the Rangers turned their attention to the orcess.

- "Ashtuzual, here is your share of the loot" - Aravir said and gave her the pouch. – "And here is a sabre for you. Tomorrow we march east and we will hand you over to the first band of orcs we come across. We promise to take you to your kind. Are you happy?".

That was a few minutes ago.

- "Judging by the wailing which broke out she was not," - Tarkil thought sarcastically. Her shrieks were starting to give him a headache. – "Maybe we should think this over and ask her why this scares her so", he spoke out loud switching to their mother tongue, Sindarin.

- "Now you speak _golug_ and you do me something nasty ..." – the lackey of darkness was slipping towards hysteria.

Looking at the quite smooth, barely marred and blingless face Tarkil had a thought.

- "Ashtuzual", - he tried to interrupt the sobs, - "Ashtuzual ... "

- "Ma ... Ma ... ster?"

- "How old are you? In winters?" – The elder of the Rangers switched to Westron.

- "Neigh ... neigh ... nine ... "

The Rangers looked at one another and reddened under the tan which brought out the best of their rugged manly scruffiness. According to the Globlinlore Master at the Angle orcs aged half faster than the race of Men. So the snotty creature grovelling in the dust before them was _not_ an unusually acquiescent adult example of the black hearted species – as they had assumed and tried hard to be civil to. It was a _girl_ pushing fourteen. They felt stupid for not having asked about her age a week before.

Aravir pulled her up to her feet. They walked a bit and sat on a log.

- "Tell us again, slowly, why do you not want to go back to your kind."

()()()()()()()()()

- "We have left markings for others but one of us must go to Imladris or the Angle and report that we left our patrol area. And we cannot take her to neither place. So we must break up. And it is I who has to report."

Aravir grinned – "Inzilbeth would be interested in Ashtuzual's offer of "I give Master good time", - he ribbed his friend.

Tarkil was not amused. The lust filled nights of the Angle had given him three daughters, two younger sisters and – at latest count – nine nieces. This coloured his perceptions of underage females.

He snorted dismissively – "It's not my wife I'd be worried about. It's my Father who'd fleece me alive for even thinking 'bout her that way!"

- "But we are in a pickle – leave her in the wild – we might as well kill her ourselves. Give her to the orcs – again, death on our hands may had been a mercy. Going by what she says and what we know of her kind she'd be dinner or a slave very, very quickly."

- "We should have sent her away on the first day. Or let her go when she ran off when we burned the bodies."

"You were too quick on your feet." – Aravir pondered the events which had brought them to this point.

- "We still don't know would that had made a difference - making her leave while she was still scared of us. She'd be dead the same."

- "Yeh, what's done is done. We are now guardians of an orcish girl ... _bagal_!"

They grinned over the use of a newly learned swear word.

- "You go to the Angle and I'll return north with our little flower. You come up with something intelligent to put in the report. Better you than me."

Tarkil groaned and put his face in his hands. – "What to report to the Chieftain?".

He snorted with amusement.

- "Sweet Elbereth, the current Chieftain's heir sharing a campfire with an orc ... maiden. The gossips and the matchmakers of the Angle would have something to say about this, eh? Whom were they trying to set you up with lately?"

Aravir gave a low growl. – "Never mind. Now that Aragorn is back from the South they are chasing him. And fair game, he is the Chieftain and heirs are his business. I'm a cadet branch. And if I'm dead then there are many descendants of Arathorn the Elder to replace me."

- "And you take good care of her, or I'll take it out of your hide."

- "Father of Darkness be praised!", Ashtuzual kept on repeating to herself. The Masters had relented and let her stay! Master Tarkil had to go and report to the _tark_ Warlord in the secret _tark_ den so she got to stay with Master Aravir only. They were to look for orcs and _shara_ raiders. Not that it mattered to her whom exactly they were hunting. She had been in an orc band preying on _shara_ and _shakutarbik_ and orc, then in a mixed orc and _shara_ band preying on everybody else again. And now she was in a _tark_ band hunting orc and "bad _shara-hai_", however these might be. What mattered was that she was alive and with a good Master. Although she now had to move around during the hours of the _Angry Face_, _tarks _not being able to see much in the light of the_ Cold Face, _the masters had been kind and thought about protecting her skin and eyes as much as possible. Life was good. She was well fed and cared for. The Masters did not hurt her when she was good, and only hissed and cursed a bit when she did something wrong. She was a happy orc.

_dagrîhtolal flokûrz_ * hairy goat fuckers

_Per fas et nefas_ * by right and wrong

_bagal! _* shit!

AN: You see poor grammar or typo – comment or send PM. I don't have a beta for this and I'm an EFL person.


	7. VII - Lack of choices

It had been a week since breaking up. Aravir was back on station and contemplated his changed circumstances. The warm body at his thigh probably turned his thoughts in that direction, he mused. He had experience with both solo and two man patrols and this was neither. The girl, the orcess, took part of the load off him, but could not share the ranger type of duties. But having somebody to talk to was nice anyway. As well as not having to gather all the firewood, or having an extra pair of hands to set traps for small animals. Even if her "might is right" and "do it to them before they do it you" outlook sometimes gave him urges to strangle her.

With consideration for her visible discomfort in strong sunlight they adopted a routine for such days – they took a break around noon, which they compensated by stopping for the night later. And then it was Ashtuzual which took care of many tasks, as he could no longer see outside the light cast by the campfire. This was one of those sunny days and the get of the Poisoned Arrow clan was curled up and entirely hidden under a blanket alongside his right leg. Her warmth felt pleasant.

Well, pleasant or not, there was the problem of what do with her. Maybe teaching her skills which would improve her status once she was back with her kind? But wouldn't that be reinforcing the forces of the shadow? What sort of skills he and Tarkil could teach her that were not - in some way - related with combat? Maybe if they got somebody to teach her midwifery ... but that also meant more orc raiders in Eriador twelve and more years later. He did not like not having alternatives but this was looking like a no-win scenario.

She shifted and the top of her head and the tip of her ear were now visible from under the blanket. He looked at the ear – so much like an elf's, he wondered. Were the legends of the orcs' origins true?

He slowly resigned himself to further care of the swarthy mite. He was fairly sure that between himself and Tarkil they could keep her alive while on patrol. He prayed for there being no emergency and recall from station. The odd courier they could browbeat and deal with the consequences later, explaining the orcess in their midst, but officers were a different matter – if ordered to send her away they would have to comply. They'd refuse to kill her - as if that would change anything - the others would do so without an eyblink. Just as he would have had a fortnight ago. She was now a person to him, he didn't think that she deserved to die - he did not want to have her blood on his hands. To keep his mind of the worst case scenario he began to go over a list of wintering possibilities, even the least likely. He chuckled at absurd thought of holeing up with the orcs. The orcs would be delighted to have a self-delivered _tark_ to _play_ with, he snorted. Orc friendly Hill Men and "bad" dwarrows – even if they managed not to get killed getting "in", he had serious doubts about getting out alive or not in chains. He had not enough experience with Dunlendings to have an opinion. It was only from hearsay that he knew that in the south one could run into individuals looking suspiciously like human-orc mixed-breeds. But seeing's believing, he thought. Asking to be assigned to the Glanduin Valley seemed like a good idea for next year. Maybe the Hill Men settlements in the north - like Leri's - would tolerate them? Or maybe they could rent a cabin on the outskirts of Breeland and keep their heads low? At the other end of the spectrum there was Imladris, the Angle or Dwarrow holds – they would be turned away at best or Ashtuzual shot on sight at worst.

()()()()()()()()

After delivering his abridged account of the events to the Chieftain's Council – the Chieftain being in the Wild as was his wont – Tarkil set out back. He was to ride to the border post and leave the horse there. But he could not resist the urge to visit his family. It would delay him by more than a day but after the latest events he had witnessed he felt an irrational compulsion to check on his wife and daughters – Eristeth, Tessila and Amlugel. He hoped that Aravir will forgive him the detour.

Inzilbeth was surprised by her husband's homecoming. Since they had married fifteen years before he only showed up when his postings were over. Such one or two day visits like this one were extremely rare. Such was the lot of a Ranger's wife she shared with several thousand other women in the Angle. Although not of the Dunedan by birth herself she had learned to live with it. She had not expected to see Tarkil before the winter snows.

He was very tense until he was sure that all four of them were present. This was unusual as usually homecoming was a joyous affair for him. Hugging her and the girls, then bathing and eating supper with them, listening to their everyday stories slowly relaxed him. Yet she could see that something haunted him. She did not press him. Looking sternly at the girls he had impressed on them to stay within earshot of the house at all times unless attended by adults.

To her surprise and disappointment at night he was not interested in lovemaking. He just held her in her arms and said he was not in the mood.

– Yavanna! The remaking of the world was Nigh! As if men needed mood for that! – she thought, trying hard not to snort.

- Was it something during the patrol? – she asked. He had only told them that - together with that Isildur's line brat, Aravir - they had rescued some females – dwarrows mostly – from slavers.

- Is there more to the story than you've said?

He grunted.

Seeing that he was not forthcoming she let sleeping orcs lay. He will tell her, eventually. He always did. Probably while chopping wood and looking away from her. That seemed to be the way in men talked about things which troubled them. She snuggled to him as this was what he appeared to need this night. And it felt good to be in his arms anyway.

Before leaving Tarkil got a good armful of his girls and drank in all the outwardly, exotic beauty of his wife he could. Their images in his memory made bearing the Lone Lands easier for him.


	8. VIII - Meeting, Social Mores, Phylosophy

Upper Hoarwell Valley

Ashtuzual sniffed. This immediately drew Aravir's attention. He had learned to trust her nose.

- _Shakutarbik-hai_ – she said in a low voice. Normally he would have corrected her, as part of his work on improving her Westron, but this might not be the time to impress the need of using the word "dwarrow".

The five dwarrows were grim and grimy. Dressed for war as much as their evidently rather humble station could afford. No mail, but a mixture of thick and boiled leathers. They were armed with general purpose items – axes and mattocks. He noted two orcish sabres – probably fresh spoils as not yet cleaned to a dwarrow standard.

While looking at the stubble of dwarrows something about them tugged at his mind. There was something wrong about them, they looked out of place. Then he cursed himself for not asking the orcess a simple question two weeks before. He turned to the dark shape at his elbow and finally did. He was unhappy with the answer.

He stood next to a tree where the dwarrows would have to see him once they were some thirty paces from him. He managed to communicate his peaceful intentions by showing empty hands before they managed to scream _Baruk Khazad!_ and charge. Which would have made him take to his heels. They just approached him cautiously, weapons at the ready. Up close he could see his hunch was right. He was going to make them happy and heartbroken at the same time and he loathed it.

He identified two by their family resemblance, greatly assisted by their lack of beards. _Lack of beards?_ He put that aside for later.

- Master Borur? Master Robur? - He addressed respective dwarrows to their utter astonishment. The four foot wall advancing on him stopped. He interrupted their sputtering of "how?" and "what?" with a polite:

- "Aravir son of Arador, at your service and your families'" and threw in a slight bow for good measure. The dwarrows reciprocated with introductions and "at your services'".

As he expected one of the other dwarrows was Faram – Ingrid's father, the others being Ingikarr – Ingrid's brother and Kafli – the father of one of the captured boys. Two of the other boy's were Faram's and one Robur's.

Aravir brought credit to his diplomacy teachers by managing to communicate that their daughters were safe while keeping Ashtuzual alive and telling them that they had completely lost the trail of their sons. The orc settlement which served as Orcobal's base of operations lay north of the Ettenmoors and he must have reached it at least a fortnight ago.

As the girls' had suspected their fathers made chase but were thrown off by the reshuffling of captives – thus they had followed the larger group led by Orcobal with male slaves. They had quickly lost track after a rain but moved forward quickly as to overtake the slave train. They now ranged to the west of the Misty Mountains hoping to run into the caravan and killing all orcs they came across. The shaved beards represented their loss of honour for allowing their children to be taken.

For three sennights afterwards the Ranger team struck up a profitable partnership with the dwarrows. Tarkil – although expected sooner - caught up with them four days later. The eight of them took to orc hunting in the south foothills of the Ettenmoors with gusto, taking on bands which two Rangers would usually give wide berth to. Ashtuzual was just as enthusiastic as everybody else, explaining:

- "These fucks ain't my clan".

Once their need for revenge was somewhat satiated, the dwarrows left. Forward looking Aravir had prudently arranged the possibility of visiting and wintering with them.

The Angle

Inzilbeth beamed at the sight of Olwina and her brood at the farm's gate. She liked the cheerful chubby Dunlending and her children. Both being non-Dunedain they were given the cold shoulder by part of the hamlet's inhabitants. Interestingly, "thoroughbreds" and the "mixed bloods" – and thanks to the gossip mill at the laundry washing stones they knew every family's lineage half way back to Numenor – were equally likely to shun as to accept them. Looking at the mix of black, brown and blonde hair of their children playing she suddenly thought about Olwina getting it worse. Tarkil was quarter Breelander anyway, whereas her husband Beleguron was of Numenorean lineage as pure as Isildur's piss. She cast a sideways glance at her father in law, Aithon.

He must have guessed what she was thinking about as he smiled and said:

- "Thinking about the different hair colours of the bairns, are you, girl?"

She nodded.

- "I got a good earful myself when I began courting Tarkil's mother. Morgoth's Third Coming, you'd think it was by listening to some of them, a true son of Numenor courting a Breelander mongrel." – His mouth twisted in disdain as he quoted the hurtful words of yesteryear.

- "I sometimes like to flatter myself that I never made it past Ensign rank because of Glynda. Sometimes it is difficult to say whether one simply was not good enough or one had to be twice as good enough ... "

Olwina was holding her hand to her mouth.

- "So you are saying that my Beleguron will never make it captain because of me? Some of the men and women as well have said that he's overdue for promotion and they cannot understand it why Gellamon was given the vacancy... "

- "Aye, not everybody can see what's right in front of them. Call it an old man's bitterness but few Rangers with wives from outside the Angle – or simply with blood from outside the Angle – make it captain. In my time I've only known two who did yet by my judgement at least half a dozen more were of merit. So," – he addressed Olwina– "don't be surprised if your Beleguron waits another twenty or forty years for his bordered star."

- "But don't feel bad," - he added quickly. – "He knew what he was doing, he chose you. That's what matters."

Nonetheless the stout woman looked pensive and saddened.

- "And what about Tarkil," - Inzilbeth asked with trepidation that her father in law could hold his son's loss of perspectives for promotion against her.

- "As much as it saddens a father to say this, daughter, he ain't got it." – He smiled at her.

- "He doesn't have the drive, the dose of ruthlessness which makes a leader. He'd never had made it past Ranger even had he married the Chieftain's daughter - had there been one." – He said with a chuckle.

- "You got the kinder hearted of my sons".

As if Inzilbeth needed any reminder of the fact, she grimaced inwardly.

Seeing that Olwina was untangling the wee ones from a furball created by some Dramatic Occurrence and out of earshot Aithon continued.

- "Had it been Thannor in Tarkil's place he'd have hardened his heart and not said a word to you. He has his ambitions, that son of mine. Maybe even the Eldermen Council." – He said in a voice not letting on whether he approved or not.

At further mention of Thannor Inzilbeth's lips became a think line and her eyes took upon the hardness of steel.

- "For the fool he is a captaincy would be worth more than you," - his opinion about his son's hypothetical choices was now evident.

Inzilbeth's eyes teared up. She leaned over the bench and hugged the ex-Ranger.

- "I was so worried ... "

Aithon interrupted her

- "You are the best thing that happened to my son since his mother died. Never doubt that."

He kissed the top of her head and hugged her back with his good arm.

A sudden thought made her look up at her daughters. And their lessened marriage prospects. Her almost _too_ perceptive father in law noticed her suddenly tensing body and sighed.  
- "Think about it this way" – he said rubbing her back, - "maybe fewer lads will come a courting, but those who do will actually care about our lasses."

Upper Hoarwell Valley

Once Tarkil caught up with Aravir and Ashtuzual and the dwarrows had left certain actions and tasks became routine. After supper the men took their smokes while the available child labour was used to wash the dishes in the stream. The said workforce sang softly to herself and appeared to be unhindered by the falling darkness. The men sat in meaningful silence, pregnant with thought. Finally Tarkil ejaculated sagely.

- "We behaved like orcs back then".

Aravir guessed what his elder was on about. He himself was troubled by what they had done - or let the women do, which was the same thing - after breaking up the slaver's camp:

- "Yeah. But two days listening ... " - he shook his head as if to clear it - " ... it seemed to do right by the women".

- "Yeah. Let's try not to do it again" – Tarkil finished the philosophical debate.

Aravir continued on thinking about it though. The very same quirk of breeding which robbed him of several inches of his Numenorean heritage – making him a mere six footer - had also replaced grey eyes with blue. Some daring women had told him that looking in his eyes made it hard for them to keep their knees together. A few men, however, told him he had the eyes of an eager torturer. Did they see something in him which he himself could not? He quickly abandoned such irrelevant thoughts. He switched to thinking about the ground they were to scout tomorrow.

**AN:**

Chapter inspired by tommyginger


	9. IX - Does this make my butt look fat?

Southern foothills of the Ettenmoor Mountains

Ashtuzual liked the time when the dwarrows were with them. And particularly after Master Tarkil came back. Once the _Shakutarbik_ had calmed down and stopped casting murderous glares in her directions, they proved to be excellent fighters. Previously she'd known them as pathetic slaves, now she saw their warrior side. Strong and difficult to overturn in combat. Twice as strong as orcs of their height. She could now understand the fascination with dworcs. Maybe she could whelp a dworc? Even though the dwarrows were barf-hurling ugly dropping such a warrior could be worth it. She'd gain prestige and a potent defender if the whelp survived to eight or ten. Naturally she'd need the Master's permission. But it was not her time and would not be for two months at least.

With there being eight of them they now were a proper warband. Small, but a warband nonetheless. The Masters had given her a bow taken from one of the hunters they had killed, some useless git from the Split Rib clan. Master Tarkil taught her the bow, while Master Aravir the sabre. She guarded their backs in the clashes with raider warbands and patrols and slaver or trader caravans coming down from the mountains. She helped track them down and then run down the survivors. She stood proud and tall, no longer a fetch and carry _snaga_ but a huntress and warrior. Well, in training, if she was to be honest about it. Still, she already had eight kills to her credit.

She was a bit disappointed that there was no _sport_ afterwards. All wounded opponents were killed quickly. The dwarves did not seem to mind that much. They even seemed to be eager to kill as many as fast as possible, trying to outdo one another. When she asked the Masters about the lack of _sport_ they made a face which – as far as she had learnt to understand their expressions – meant that they were sad and unhappy. She did not understand neither the sadness nor the unhappiness – but due to the latter she kept to the other side of the camp. Just in case they would vent.

Watching how the warband worked was fascinating for her. The first few days after joining forces with the dwarves she ate her portion with lightning speed, to finish before anybody stronger came for her part. But nobody ever came. Then she noticed that portions were more or less equal, the leaders not getting extra. There was no fighting over food, everybody simply ate their share and seconds – if there any and if they fancied some. She always took seconds. She had always been hungry, as far as she could remember. She was not letting any food go to waste, i.e. be eaten by somebody else.

Besides there being no fights over food, there were no fights at all. There were death glares, baring of the useless dull teeth and snarls and grunts worthy of an orc, but there was no fighting for position. Everybody knew that Master Tarkil was Boss, and Master Aravir his second, while among the dwarrows the boss was Faram. The normal course of affairs appeared to be the three of them, sometimes with another dwarrow participating, to work out what to do. With no cuffing behind the ears, too.

The division of the loot was highly unfair, however. The Dwarrows took almost everything, the Masters almost nothing. And they did not think of her at all. After dressing and equipping her with loot they never took anything for her. She literarily bled inside seeing pretty baubles being discarded and left behind but was afraid of complaining, complaints brought punishment. But after one skirmish Master Tarkil must have seen her eyes or heard her whimper – _had she lost control and whimpered out loud_? – so now she had a necklace, bangles, three rings, a fancy belt, and a pouch with "pretty things". The Master let her rummage for such things and keep them, while they themselves only took what they needed at the moment. They did ensure she got her share of coins if there were any, though. They forbid her to make piercings, though, and no whimpering and grovelling broke down their resistance. Such obsequiousness seemed to make them angry with her. Nonetheless over such an important matter she tested the limits of how far she could go without provoking a beating and afterwards was scared of her own insolence. Though irritated, the Masters did not hit her. But still no piercings. Master Aravir had glared at her with those terrifying blue eyes – she thought his eyes were much more terrifying than the infamously _tarkish_ grey eyes of Master Tarkil – and told her he'll rip the offending pieces of metal or bone out of her skin himself. Her last thought while sobbing herself to sleep was "stupid old tarks don't know what makes a lass pretty!"

One day she asked the dwarrows why they were taking all the weapons –they had only two arms each, so why carry half a dozen sabres about like Robur. The explained that back home they would melt down the metal and reuse it. She knew about smiths so she understood what they wanted to do, but did not understand why. She asked why – the sabres were sharp and killed well enough. They gave her a long story about workmanship, with many Westron words she did not know. Probably to make her feel stupid 'cause she's an orc. Or a lass. Or both. Hairy fat bastards! Lice in their beards is too good for the likes of them!

Listening to the dwarrows she realised that they had histories with one another going tens of years. She was fascinated when they told her that they had between seventy and two hundred and ten years. Not that she believed them. But then again, some warbosses were reputed to be hundreds of years old, and some to have seen Morgoth Himself.

The sires of the dwarrowdams asked her about their daughters. What she told them made them barely restrain themselves in their anger and fury. This made her edgy and she kept close to Masters. She hoped very strongly, she was close to _certain_ that they would protect her. They did vent their fury on the other orcs and occasional Hill Men, not on her. She could well see that what the girls had told her was true – their sires cared for them, even the male sibling did. She vaguely wondered what their mothers were like.


	10. X - The Critical Days and Blown Cover

September 2981 – Northern Arnor, between North Downs and Ettenmoors

Since the Dwarrows left the trio had patrolled across the lands which once nourished the mighty kingdom of Rhuadur. They moved slightly Westwards, as skirmishing with orcs patrolling approaches to their dens was not their task anymore. It was not very exciting and hard on the bodies of those involved.

The game was quite good and between their arrows and traps, and all the wild berries and fruit offered by the summer Ashtuzual's body began to fill out. The Heat, her fourth ever, hit like never before. She spent three days in enormous discomfort, itchy, edgy, incapable of sitting down, suffering sudden heat waves. She felt the urge to rub her crotch against something. Tarkil watched her, thoughtfully, and ordered camp earlier. He told Aravir to take a good tour around the camp and instructed him to be on the lookout for certain plants. He then sat down himself comfortably at the small fire and asked the girl to join him. Looking anywhere but at her he asked:

- "Do orcish lasses bleed? What do they do then?"

Once that area was covered and appropriate garments chosen to be converted to a new role Ashtuzual turned to the Ranger.

- "I'm so jittery and shaky and jumpy and sweaty 'cause I want to whelp."

She hadn't noticed before that his grey eyes were _that_ big and so round, so unlike slanted orcish eyes. He also seemed to have some problems with breathing.

- "I'm in heat. I never had it so hard before. I don't know what's happening. Before it was three days – it's the third day today, still strong and I feel I'll still have it tomorrow. Do you know what's happening to me?" - She looked expectantly at the Ranger.

- "Could it be that I have it stronger now 'cause I'm stronger?" – she continued. –

"At the den the lasses that were allowed to breed were given more meat so that the sprogs would be stronger once they're dropped. I've never eaten so much since you've taken me on, now I've got bigger tits and more bum than I ever had before. Could it be it?" – she looked up to the married Ranger to say something to alleviate her worries over what nature was doing to her well toned body – now with curves in the appropriate places.

Tarkil's heartbeat was almost back to normal. When she had casually mentioned begetting he was horrified that she was expecting him to be the father. He found it abhorrent as he had grown to think about her as one of his many nieces. Almost like a fourth daughter. Gathering his wits about he recalled that she mentioned previous such cases, so it was not that she _must_, but that she _could_. That was a relief ...

- "I was thinking and I didn't hear you properly. Could you say that again?" – He said weakly.

He voiced his support for her theory, vaguely remembering some overheard conversation between women talking that some girl or other was ill, was very weak and didn't have courses for several months.

- "And your daughters - they got the Heat already? When do mannling lasses get it the first time? Do you give them herbs to calm them down and not jump the lads? I was eight, but it varies a lot, some lasses get it the first time at seven, some at nine."

Once Tarkil got through answering this dose of questions, he was immediately deluged by another. The orcess apparently had been damming up her curiosity about mannling females and now let it flow all out.

- "Can the lads smell it on them? 'Casue you didn't smell on me, as you'd be talking with me earlier. But maybe you couldn't 'cause you're _tark_ and I'm orc. So, can the lads smell it on them? Is it you who decides who whelps them? Or your _shauk_? The ... war boss? The den boss? As among orcs it's the den boss, she's almost as important as the war boss, who decides which lass whelps or not. That's in a good den, that is. Now I'm older I see things better - my den was poorly run. Too many whelps, not enough grub. That's why they sold me off. "

He set out to brave this battery of questions, answers to which often were difficult and not always of the sort he wished to think about.

- "The lads, the men – we can't smell anything. But by behaviour we often known which boy the lass favours - ummm... well .. to a certain extent we leave it to our daughters themselves to decide who it is she wants to spend her life with and bear children by (_provided her blood is pure enough for he-of-Isildur's piss purity of bloodline, _he added bitterly to himself;_ or the dowry large enough_) both families will go along with what they want. My wife – Inzilbeth - would certainly have a say (_although not all men listen to their wives in this regard_) - so if there was something about the man she found objectionable ..."

- "Like what?" – Ashtuzual interrupted.

- "Well...if she thought his people were not good...did not teach him the right way to treat our daughter...or if she thought he was likely to beat her."

The orcess frowned and asked seriously

- "_Tark_ beat their _shauk_? All _tark_? Some _tark_?"

_- "_Sadly sometimes this happens ..."

"... as to choice of man for daughter ... if he might desert her and her children."

- "_Tark_ leave _shauk_ with whelp? What do you do?"

- "Well...uh .. I would want to make sure he knows that if he does not take care of my daughter...does not cherish her and protect her and do everything in his power to make her happy...that I will personally kill him."

- "You're a good _krank_ then" – she beamed at him.

She grilled him, struggling with new concepts, as did he, trying to explain – or simply put into words - things which were never talked about as they were simply accepted as they were. They were unsure whether spouse meant the same thing to Men as _shauk_ to Orcs or was _krank_ the same as father.

Aravir talked into the camp to hear an animated screech -

- "EVERY MOON!? How GHASTLY!"

To Ashtuzual's surprise Tarkil refused to talk on female subjects once Aravir was present.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Twice they managed to hide Ashtuzual from messengers bearing and collecting messages, once by accident and once by design.

But three time's a charm ... and the inevitable happened.

- "What the fuck is that!" – The Ranger roared entering the camp.

Ashtuzual fled and cowered behind Master Tarkil. What she had seen in that new Ranger's eyes made Master Aravir's glare almost non-menacing. Almost.

- "That is Ashtuzual. She is with us" – Tarkil was serenity incarnate.

– "She is not the orc you are looking for ..."

- "You know fuck all what fucking orc I was looking for! What the fucking fuck is going on?! Why is a pair of rangers dragging an orc around? What is it doing ALIVE? What ... "

His eyes opened wider in a mix of understanding and incredulity - his jaw dropped.

– "you FUCKING dirty perverts you ... you are FUCKING her!?"

He immediately had Tarkil in his face -

– "You filthy minded balrog slaying troll asswipe! I'd sooner fuck your hairy ass than touch a child like her!"

The subject of the uproar stood back, wondering whether fists would fly or would they draw knives? Should she knife the new _tark_ in the back or would Master Tarkil be annoyed for stealing his kill?

After some time the yelling subsidised to angry conversation.

- "Get it into your head that she's been with us for half a year yet we are still alive!"

- "Tell me what you will but it is absolutely unthinkable for Rangers to range with an orc, be it a girl child or not. I'm reporting this to the captain and then to the Council. This stinks of Corruption and Treason!"

- "If you are going the Angle then please take this missive with you. It is from my companion to the Council."

- "And who this companion might be."

- "The Chieftain's Heir."

AN:

Head canon uses slightly modified orc female physiology as conjured by HelenaMarkos (check her fics, folks). Orc lasses are fertile for 3-6 days every half year. Gestation lasts six months or so (26 weeks).

With assistance of TommyGinger.


	11. XI - Wintering and Spring fashions

Late October 2981 – Northern Arnor, between North Downs and Ettenmoors

Aravir and Ashtuzual moved out at dawn. While bidding good-bye the swarthy slip of a girl clung to the tall Ranger, the two in tight embrace. To avoid any orders which might directly demand – or indirectly force them into – abandoning their unusual ward, Tarkil pleaded with his colleague to take her West. Had the son of Arador not agreed, he would had taken care of her himself, but Inzilbeth and the girls would be very, very unhappy with him as it would put off their reunion by some three or four months, if not more. And he yearned to see them again.

The blue eyed Ranger was not so happy about the situation. He understood that he had to do what he had to do, but this still did not improve his mood. Until they found a way of safely giving the pointy eared dark flower away, they were stuck with her. It was either taking care of her or being responsible for her death. He took her under his wing for the winter for two reasons. One being that he himself had stayed his hand and spared her life, way back in May. In his eyes not killing her put made her life – as she was not of Age - in some way his responsibility. Yet the main reason was Tarkil. He had been his close friend for over thirty years, never caring for his lofty lineage nor position. For the umpteenth time Aravir wondered was it the part Breelander's lack of perspectives for advancement that kept him from revealing even a hint of bootlicking. His brother, on the other hand ... Nonetheless once Tarkil married Inzilbeth and had Duvaindes his colleague had become a new man. He was now a veritable mother hen and went fatherly on any female below five feet within eyesight or earshot. He'd take care of Ashtuzual for Tarkil's sake alone. And for a chance to have a go at Inzilbeth's pickled cabbage once he returned to the Angle.

They found the village of Leri's folk without much trouble. Her family loved him and was more accepting of the orcish girl than he had hoped for. The reactions of the rest of the village were _interesting_ to say the least. The Ranger got more death glares than Ashtuzual did. This made Aravir chalk off the village as one to keep a good eye in the future. Two Rangers on permanent station for a year - that'd be his recommendation to the Council.

Well before they outstayed their welcome - but driven by fears over a possible early winter - they struck out west again. They were rested, with full bellies and clean – Leri's father had his own steam bath which Aravir was more than happy to use. The flower of the Misty Mountains enjoyed all sorts of baths too – making him wonder for a moment about the filthiness of orcs. He could not deny that Rangers in the field were filthy too. He chuckled at the thought of Mr Travel Light Rosben – a Ranger for whom salt, comb or soap were all superfluous deadweight, never to be taken on patrols. In the field that one got ripe quickly – he recalled - yet back in the Angle he was as clean as anybody, if not cleaner.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

December 2981/February 2982– eastern foothills of the Emyn Uial, Dwarrow settlement

They found the settlement with the first snows. They were close to being greeted with an axe in the gut, nerves being what could be expected after the slavers' raid of the spring. They were pleased to see the girls in much better form, especially being welcomed by the sight of Gudrun being up and about. The winter passed uneventfully. The dwarrows were reasonably non-hostile towards the orcess and worshipful of him. To pay for his keep Aravir hunted and set traps, often accompanied by Ashtuzual. He also gave weapons training to those interested and with free time. Although quite proficient for civilians, he noticed areas where some instructions from a professional would make them improve. They were not so happy to see Ashtuzual training with them but accepted the argument that sparing with them made her better prepared to fight orcs. With height and arms' reach being similar, they were stronger, so if she survived _them_, she'd be ready to go toe to toe with minions of Darkness.

Nevertheless, he was bored. In the Angle he'd have other things to do – he would listen to Council meetings, sitting out his ban on speaking (_only_ _thirty years to go ..._ ), he'd go over the registers of his estates with the steward, he socialise a bit, he'd flirt a bit, maybe have a winter-long romance with one of the widows ... this was much to much of a working holiday for him. The dwarrows hinted that he could lend a hand at the forge, too, so the bellows were no longer an abstract term for him.

What he missed most was involvement in planning next year's operations. He had asked Tarkil to put the two of them up as a pair for the Greyflood Valley to check out the rumours that suspected half orcs were seen there. To get a half orc you need an orc as a starting point, so maybe they'd take her on, he mused. Three previous owners, the last pair very careful ... what a life she'd had to date ... he shook his head over this thought.

Before they broke up Tarkil came up with an idea of giving Ashtuzual a rose shaped clasp for her cloak. Plus the cloak to begin with, of course. At some distance it would look misleadingly like a Ranger's star, thus delaying the critical first arrow in her direction. Robur son of Borubar, the father of one of the women they've saved, promised to forge such a fastener for her. The two of them had also discussed teaching the orcess Sindarin. Her Westron was good enough already, especially with the practice over the winter with the Dwarrows, so it'd be nice if the three of them were able to converse in the Rangers' mother tongue. This was also to be an extra layer of defence of the girl - they hoped that any Rangers and Elves would be suitably impressed with her knowledge of the eleven tongue and not kill her once she managed to get a word in. He vaguely remembered some elf in Rivendell telling him that orcs were incapable of speaking elvish of any kind. Was that Old Sunshine? So he took the plunge and lessons in Sindarin began. True that this sweet little flower showed more interest in learning how to say you "putrid ooze dripping warg buggered git" than the song of Beren and Luthien, but she was quite quick and Sindarin was Sindarin ...

He had hoped to have the girl dressed in something made to size and not looted rags. Legwear was not a problem, with Ljufa, Faram's wife, being a shoemaker by trade. She was more than happy to cobble together two pairs of boots, so the orcess had a sturdy – VERY STURDY – pair and spare. Aravir and Ashtuzual joked about which might be a larger maintenance problem – cracked leather or rust? With all the metal in them the orcess' boots qualified as weapons, they decided. Aravir now was another proud owner of dwarrow made shin-smashers.

Obtaining clothing threw up an unexpected hitch. The winter's first courier to Belegost, the main Dwarrow settlement in the Emyn Luin, took their order to a renowned tailoress. The reply complicated the issue of bespoke clothing for the orcess:

_The measurements supplied with the order must be wrong, as it is impossible for a dwarrowdam to have such dimensions. Yet if these measurements are correct, then may the lice from a hundred elven mullets infest the beard of the scum who starved her so. I will take no custom from one like him._

_Sigurd Kirikissdottir_

It was too late to order outside the settlement again so they had to go with whatever typcical dwarrow-wear was on hand. Before the choice of skirt versus trousers could become a cause of conflict between the Ranger and the orcess, the issue was decided by arbitrage (_putting it mildly - it was armed intervention!_). Aravir was stared down by almost a dozen dwarrowdams – in such numbers they simply overpowered, trampled, chewed and spit out his steely pale blue glare – so Ashtuzual was fitted out in modified dwarrow clothing in line with dwarrow sensibilities.

- _A_ _dam on the road must look like a male, or bad things happen_ – Ye Olde Dwarfishes Wisdom was hammered into his head.

He did save Ashtuzual from a fake beard, though.


	12. XII - Tourism, a measure of acceptance

December 2981/February 2982 – eastern foothills of the Emyn Uial, Dwarrow settlement

Setting out after wintering made Ashtuzual ponder on the year that had passed since she had set out with Orcobal's raiders a year before. Had her _tark_ masters been orcs, they'd be famous warriors and lads would be back stabbing one another to join them once they made a call to form a warband. And inside the warband – the way they treated her – she would have status equal to that of a common warrior. At least. She'd defer to any _pizbur_ they'd appoint, of course, but not by much. With the huntress and warrior training she was getting she could try for a scouting role in a year or two, pushing her status even higher. But that would mean giving up the Masters' back protecting job - to somebody else. Naaa, better stick to guarding the Masters' backs – she didn't know anybody more trustworthy than herself.

The winter had been a fascinating affair. Disappointedly the _shakutarbik_ den had been pretty much like the _shara-hai_ one. She had hoped it would be like an orc one, underground. But this was temporary, like a hunting camp, to be abandoned after a few years. And a small den, too. Five family groups, if she counted correctly. Secretive folk, those dwarves, doing everything they could behind closed doors. She'd never seen them mating, for instance. But they had secrecy in their very construction, she mused – the purpose of the fur on their faces was to hide their facial expressions from others, she was sure.

They were fiercely loyal to one another, far beyond then just mate to mate or sibling to sibling ties. They were to make an attempt at freeing those four boys again. She helped them by drawing, from memory, the shapes of the mountains where Orcobal usually did his business. The _shakutarbik_ wanted to take her along but Master Aravir said no. He said that his duty did no allow him to go with them before consulting the tark warboss, which would take too much time. And that he could not let her go as his duty was to protect her. So he'd given them money – as that always helped – and gave them his personal token, allowing them to call upon his secret name if they met other Rangers.

At that the dwarves solemnly nodded and said that they knew more about duty than anybody else. To prove it they sang the _99 Years of Duty_ song, which took four hours. It was about a lad who was a bodyguard of the supreme warboss His Opulence (_he was LOADED_), and a lass who was a bauble making smith (apparently a prestige giving dwarrow profession). The two fancied a tumble and by the words of the song needed one too – they were going bonkers without it. But it was always him on guard duty, or her on duty keeping the forge going. So they never get to boink over those ninety nine years. And when they were finally to mate the dragon came and burned them all. This sob story made her cry herself to sleep that night. Ninety nine years without a tumble ...

March 2982 - Bree

After some interrogation the scatterbrain helping his father run the inn remembered that three Rangers – including a child – were in the big corner room. He knocked softly and entered.

- Strider.

- Shorty, Honey ...

The cloak clad figure giggled and repeated the names. And started to laugh.

Tarkil looked at the Chieftain sheepishly.

- Sometimes she's like a little girl. In human terms she's fifteen. She's been giggling from the moment she finally noticed our Ranger names.

Strider gestured for the orcess to draw back her hood. Once she did he looked at her searchingly. She had no more malevolence in her than he could see in his uncle Aravir, for instance. Her eyes were a mix of current merriment, curiosity and mischief. For all the "bewitched by orcish sorcery" talk around the council he could not discern any special evil about her. She was tainted, but it was the sort of taint he'd often feel among the Race of Men, weak, not the striking dose he felt from really evil creatures – be them men, wargs, orcs or trolls. He noted the worry over the results of his scrutiny in Tarkil – the gentle Ranger was evidently protective of the little orc. His uncle – on the other hand – was much more relaxed about the whole thing.

They ate their noon meal together. Aravir studied his long unseen nephew, Aragorn studied Aravir and Ashtuzual, Ashtuzual studied everybody and Tarkil nobody in particular, happy to see them all.

March 2982 - Bree

The _shara-hai_ and _small-folk_ settlements were a new wonder for the denizen of Darkness. The modified elf noticed that some of the _shara_ lived in STONE houses and had an extra layer above the ground level. The little folk in turn, when they could, built small one-family dens into the hillsides, with round doors and windows. Like little caves. How quaint, she thought! The small folk were even shorter than she was, although stouter. The _small folks_ women – and some of the _sharlob_ too - had enormous breasts which they tried to squeeze under their leather jerkins. Some had cut the leather too low and the breasts popped up – good for them that they had shirts to catch them. But why did they skimp on the leather? And they had enormous feet and walked barefoot and they had ... ewww ... hair on the tops of their feet. The place Ashtuzual slept and ate in a separate room with the Masters there was a second layer. And they didn't use ladders but special walk ups – the masters called the _stairs_ – to reach the second layer.

The Supreme Warboss of the _tarks_ – or Dunedain, like they preferred to be called – was Aragorn vel Strider. It was tough to remember the new names for the Masters – Honey and Shorty. Strider was taller than either of the Masters, just the way it should be. It was almost always the largest orc leading the warband. And no scars on him – he was that good, no challenger leaving a mark on him. Not as broad as Aravir vel Shorty – would the young Master challenge him? Sometims it was not the largest orc, but the strongest or most vicious or tricksiest. Probably not – the Warboss was his brother's whelp which among the _tarks_ was almost like an own whelp. Confusing.

Tarkil and the cloaked mite did some necessary shopping while the two Dunedain of noblest lineage in Middle Age conferred. Besides discussing general matters the minor issue of the orc was decided. The betrothed of Arwen ruled that Tarkil and Arvair – and only they – were responsible for Ashtuzual. And that they were stuck with her – letting her go back to some orc tribe was out of the question. Letting her go to some strange group of men and half orcs – again Aragorn was opposed. Such a group was practically guarantied to be bandits. So Tarkil and Aravir were stuck with a valet or squire of sorts – some thirty to forty years, considering the life span of the common orc. Strider agreed to keep her existence in mind when assigning patrols. Hopefully in a few years' time others would get used to her. For this year they were attached to the Sarn Ford Station, to cover the south eastern approaches to the Shire with an eye on the southern approach to Bree as well.

July 2982 – southern Barrow Downs

The bandit was trussed up and Aravir began to interrogate him. Behind his back Ashtuzual was dressing game. The bandit was the strong, silent type and refused to answer any questions. He just glared at the Ranger and didn't say a thing. But the blue eyed defender of the North noticed that when the snitch-snitch of the knife through meat or skin behind his back stopped, the bandit's eyes glanced apprehensively in Ashtuzual's direction. He almost chocked himself stifling his laughter. She was doing it again, Tarkil's and his efforts to make her drop that nasty habit apparently going to naught as soon as their backs were turned. In this case – literarily ... He switched to Sindarin, certain that Mister Tough and Tight-lipped would not know it:

- Are you doing what you shouldn't be doing again?

- ... –

- You don't need to answer; I know you _are_ doing it again. But today you are forgiven. Just when you're doing it smile at our guest, will you?

The buldging eyes of the bandit immediately told him that the girl had smiled at the prisoner while licking the knife dripping with deer's blood.


	13. XIII - The making of a nest

Summer and Autumn of 2982, along the Baranduine

Aravir was looking for something. He vaguely remembered some piece of information pertaining to Hobbits and their customs related at a fireside two or three decades ago, when he had just earned his Star. For this reason he left the swarthy flower with Tarkil and scouted north along the river on his own. Let "Honey" deal with keeping pony back and orc ass together. The river had made its ninety degree turn and no longer flowed south west, but south east. To his right he had the Tyrn Gorthda, the Barrow Downs where the last of Cordolan's defenders held out for two hundred years after the fall of their kingdom. He murmured a short prayer to their memory. To the left – the river and the low country beyond it, the Southfarthing of the Halflings. There should be no problems coming from that side.

The problems could be orc or mannish nogoodniks seeking temporary shelter in the Barrow Downs – like the band they had caught and killed six sennights previously. He smiled at the memory of the bandit eagerly spewing everything he knew once Ashtuzual was allowed to indulge in her obnoxious habit of licking blood off utensils.

The well known danger of the Downs – the wights – was not a threat as long as one did not go there. Which he had no intention off.

He pressed on, the usually mist obscured Downs on his right being replaced by the Old Forest. If stories were true he should not be too worried about orcs coming out from there – the Forest was supposed to hate those creatures and kill the. Better not let Ashtuzual go there, a thought passed his mind. Ill intentioned Men, in turn, were either too scared to venture there, or had no business to do so. Trader caravans ran to the north of the Forest and the Downs, or to the east. Moving south through the Old Forrest made no sense at all, as it lead into nowhere in particular. Buckland was protected by a hedge, and further south the Brandywine had an extensive swamp abutting its western bank.

This was a place ideal for his purpose. He was looking for a place to winter. If by his cousin's decision he was to look towards twenty or thirty years of winter quarters outside the Angle, he needed a place not dependent on the goodwill of others. And this odd enclave, surrounded by swamps, evil forests, wight infested hills and parochial Halflings should be a relatively safe place. Even if it didn't have what that story heard so long ago had mentioned, he could still build a cabin ...

The Ranger beamed happily looking up from the bank of the river. Half a dozen or so round openings in the escarpment looming over the river. The – what was that word again – smalls? snails? – of the Exiles. Made by hobbits exiled for their crimes from the Shire but loath to go into the Lone Lands. He left his horse and went to investigate the dwellings.

Aravir had a blade at his throat. The something which had kept up on him did so with incredible stealth.

- "Turn around", he heard a growl. – "hands away from the belt."

The Ranger sized up the hobbit. A male. He didn't look the violent type. A violent Halfling would be an oxymoron, but one could always chance upon the one-in-a-million-hobbits serial killer. Aravir's contact with Breeland hobbits was not particularly intensive but he considered himself as being capable of judging their character by their looks. Size did not matter - he had orcs more or less this hobbit's size trying to gnaw his head off. As to the knife at his throat - in such circumstances carrying a knife around did not point towards "violence oriented" but "prudent". He himself was a walking armoury. Aravir noted the tattooed hands informing of the Shireling's status – this was part of his lessons on laws and customs of the peoples of Eriador.

- "What do you want here", the hobbit pressed him.

Aravir decided for the blunt approach. He gambled with hobbits not being renowned as cutthroats.

- "If you are refurbishing one of those run down smials that means we are going to be neighbours. I'm planning to winter here with my ... companion. Maybe we could live amicably side by side?"

The Halfling did not look happy. Rather he looked aghast. No wonder. The ranger could well understand that such a perspective was much harder on the hobbit than on him. Had a troll offered him good neighbourly status he'd be stunned and unhappy about it too.

There were two of them, apparently a couple. The female looked pregnant. The pair was very similar looking but then again his experience with hobbits was not sufficient to push him much beyond the "they all look the same" stage.

The Hobbits' names were Hartmut and Gersvinda. Aravir offered to help them get their smial – he was informed of the correct term - ready. He had a week before he needed to go back to report. Their four strong hands under Hartmut's direction made short shrift of the task. The hobbit turned out to be much more knowledgeable about carpentry and other domestic jobs than the ranger. No wonder, Aravir thought, he knew 101 ways in which to kill an orc but joining two planks was a challenge! The shiereling put the tools he had brought to good use. A good thing he had picked up some woodworking tools in Bree in the spring, even before he had remembered the Smails of the Exiles. He had vague plans for a cabin somewhere.

Ashtuzual was ecstatic when she met Gersvinda. To her horror she poked her in the baby bump and with a toothy smile announced:

- "Wonderful that you are with whelp! I always wanted to see a whelping! I will come and help!"

The hobbitess stuttered something which could be conjectured to express lack of enthusiasm towards the idea.

The orcess made a long face of a kicked puppy.

- "Are Halflings different? Lads help with whelping? Among orcs, dwarrows and mannling's it is always the same - the lads are chased away and it is something the lasses do together. Or will other Halfling lasses come to be with you?"

At this Gersvinda teared up and began to sob. And broke down completely a moment later. She didn't protest when Ashtuzual timidly crept up and embraced her. Through raking sobs she said that no, no other hobbit women will come, that there will no customary congregation of a family's womenfolk – a dozen or more, but only she and Hartmut. That she was afraid and unhappy and that it shouldn't be like this. That she will be birthing her child like a homeless dog in a ditch. The wailing quickly produced an alarmed Hartmut but seeing that Ashtuzual was not coiling Gersvinda's intestines around her fingers he calmed down a bit. He gently pried the hobbitess from the orcess grasp and took over comforting her.

The rest of the season passed uneventfully, with their patrolling often involving either Aravir or Ashtuzual visiting the smial-under-refit to give a hand. In return they provided the Hobbits with game. By this time the orcess had become a reasonably competent rider of her pony "Azog". Giving the older Ranger a good turn for his covering of their absence on station Tarkil was sent to Bree to buy some supplies – getting a bath and a night in bed as a side-benefit. Reciprocating for Aravir's assistance Hartmut helped with their smial. It was perfectly sized for the debased elf, but being inside gave the scion of Numenor a permanent hunch. The crafty Halfling suggested a solution of sorts:

- "The floor is damaged and I will have to relay it. Considering how improperly shaped you are, I would deepen the floor in the middle of the corridor, the kitchen and the bedroom – the places where you will be spending the most time. The floor along the sides will remain as it is. Ash" – the hobbits refused to use their full names, with the ranger becoming Ara – "will have to remember about not falling into the central groove. The pantry will stay as it is."

Aravir stole a boat at the Mithe, leaving a pouch with several times its worth in silver in return. He hoped the Hobbit will not hate him for this. After teaching Hartmut and Ashtuzual to swim – or not to sink immediately - he left them to hunt for birds gathering for their flight south in the Overbourn Marshes, with instructions to keep to the south side of the wetlands. He did not have to add – _without being seen_. The captured fowl was then smoked by the waddling Gersvinda for the winter.

In mid November Shorty and Ashtuzual waved off Honey, sending him and the horses (and Azog) to Inzilbeth and the girls a fortnight sooner. Aravir took the last weeks of the season onto himself, leaving Ashtuzual on baby watch. And gleefully leafing through Basics of Midwifery Illustrated.

()()()()()()()()

AN:

Smials of the Exiles and Hobbit customs and ordinance from headcanon of dreamflower02

To see where they holed up go to the Encyclopaedia of Arda website and write in Mithe in the search window.


	14. XIV - Winter Quarters 2982-83

Summer of 2982 to Spring 2983, Sarn Ford Station and the Smials of the Exiles

The masters kept up her training and her Sindarin lessons. The language of the _golug-hai_ came in handy when they captured the _shara _raider_. _Master Aravir was able to give her instructions the mannling could no understand. And the silly _shara_ was afraid of her, and not of master Aravir's blue eyes. Now that's what's scary! Not her.

At the big camp they often ran into other Rangers. At first almost all grabbed their weapons upon seeing her, afterwards getting used to her presence around Masters Honey and Shorty. Most got used to her, a few began to acknowledg her presence with a nod, and one or two even spoke to her. The majority gave her a "stay away" glare, however. She knew better than to go where she wasn't wanted, living with orcs _beat _such knowledge into one. The Rangers who talked with her were amused by her titling the Masters Master. They were probably jealous that the Masters had her and they didn't.

She learned to ride the four legged creature the mannlings and _golug-hai_ used for transport and sometimes for combat. She was given a small one. The masters said she could give it – it actually was a bitch – a name. They said it could be named anything – after a flower, animal, or famous person. So she named her pony Azog. The pony didn't mind the name while the Masters thought it funny. But Azog _was_ famous – every orc in the Misty Mountains had heard of him! Some of the Rangers had male horses which wanted to do her harm. She still was not sure if they ate _only _greens – the way some looked at her she was quite sure they longed for _orcflesh. _

The little folk Master Shorty found for them to winter with were wonderful. They – Master Shorty and she - were going to live in a _Hobbit_ style den – with those cute round doors and windows she'd seen in Breeland. The clever little folk made deeper walkways for Master, to keep him from hitting his head on things. Very clever builder hobbit. The woman – Gersvinda – was with whelp! She was scared, however, when the orcess first mentioned helping her to whelp – and then she cried a lot without any apparent reason. She later agreed to her assistance and said that she is grateful. Seems that she and Hartmut did something which the other Hobbits think to be _very bad_ and now they cannot live among other hobbits. They have tattoos on their hands saying they did ... whatever the hobbits considered to be _bad things_. So maybe Master Shorty was right about having tattoos being a bad thing after all. He also gave her a _look_ and said that it is _very_ bad manners to ask what they were cast out for. But Hobbits were not known for killing one another, and were a strange folk to begin with, so she shouldn't worry that they'd do something nasty to her. Not that she'd allow it, she'd fought a _shara_ bandit and killed him.

Gersvinda explained that she cried that day when Ashtuzual mentioned help with whelping as among hobbits it is a very joyous affair, with all the women in the family being present - from sensible teenagers up to the still mobile oldies. And here she won't have any of that. So she now is happy that the orcess will be there – a girl is a girl, after all. She only asked the orcess to trim her claws. Ashtuzual thought this silly, after all orcesses have been whelping with fully grown claws since the times of Angbad ... but then again Gersvinda was _not_ an orcess ...

She did not know that Master Shorty was so strong – she now saw him carry logs or stones for the dens, his muscles bulging. Funny how _shakaturbik_, hobbit, _shara-hai_ and _tark-hai_ all had thin fur on their bodies, not like orcs. And then he tought her and the male hobbit to swim. He also bravely stole a boat for her and Hartmut to hunt – they took to quietly rowing across the river at dawn and shot – sometimes even simply netting – the incredible numbers of birds that were there. The birds were to leave before winter and come back in the spring – or so the Man and the Hobbit said. Ashtuzual had never seen such things while she was small in the den, she didn't see the sky much then.

Master Honey brought her a book about whelping! It had very interesting pictures showing everything! And sprogs and all too! Ashtuzual begged Aravir to teach her to read, so that she would know what does it say next to the illustrations. So the winter routin set in – some arms training, some hunting and trapping – although they did not venture deep in to the forest, both feeling its animosity - Sindarin and writing lessons.

Hartmut found some inlets along the bank where the current was slow and the ice was thick enough to bear them. He cut out holes in the ice to catch fish. Ashtuzual found this to be a particularly boring, time wasting activity. Hartmut and Aravir, however, sat on wood stumps next to the holes for hours and were happy. Arm in arm with Gerasvinda and cooing at the rosy cheeks and toothless smile of Pansy waving her clutched translucent fingers about they agreed that regardless if mannling, hobbit or orc – males are all the same. They'll do anything not to stay at home and do some honest work. Even freezing was better.

For Ashtuzual the top new addition to wintering activities was baby sitting. First she assisted with the hobittess' labour, alongside Hartmut. The orcess grudgingly admitted that he might have some role too. Aravir was very glad to be pushed out the door, however. The whelping was everything the orcess imagined it to be and much more. For the first days it was difficult to keep Pansy out of Ashtuzual's arms and she was good naturedly shooed out of the hobbits' smial. She eagerly helped with the tiny fauntling whenever she could.

Once the chores of the day were done the blue eyed Ranger had a special treat for the orcess. They sat side by side on the bench next to their roughly hewn table. And by candle light the Dunadan read out loud from Basics of Midwifery Illustrated. This was to save Ashtuzual from struggling to read the difficult words and to immediately explain the meaning of words she did not know - if Aravir knew them, that is .

– " ... _at maximum dilation, approximately four inches_ ... "

- "How much is that, show me!"

- "More or less like this ..."

- "Gerasvinda had less, maybe like this ..."

- "You have seen women of the race of men in Bree, the book was written about them. Hobbits are smaller. Much smaller."

- " ... _four inches, the head_ ..."

- "Can _tark_ and _hobbit_ boink?"

- "I have not heard about such events. I have heard tales about it, but from people I'm fairly sure have never seen a hobbit, so I don't believe them."

Ashtuzual snuggled into the warm bulk of the Ranger - _he wasn't like those shara in the slaver band and she did not fear him; well, she feared him when he glared at her but she did not fear him **that** way_ - and tapped her finger on the book.

- "Next to this picture, what does it say?"


	15. XV - Spring flooding and baby bumps

2983, spring to autumn, Sarn Ford Station and Breeland

The springtime view at sunset from the smial was astonishing – snowmelt and rains made the Brandywine overflow, making the Overborne Marshes expand west- and southwards almost as far as the eyes could see and – with higher water levels covering most of the vegetation – making the wetland look like a lake. Such a watery vista extended from the edge of the Old Forest and the village of Deephallow (the homesick hobbits had taught Ash and Ara the names of all visible land features) – the village currently an island - on the right, up the Shirebourn, the view immediately in front being enclosed by the forested hills of the Woody End, and on the left the water merged with the horizon of the low lying lands of the Southfarthing.

With spring came news and orders. Aravir remained on Sarn Ford Station. Tarkil, however, owing to his wife's condition, was assigned to courier duty. This allowed him to spend more time with Inzilbeth, due in August. A courier's duty was to stay at readiness in the Angle to carry missives to the five stations outside it. And in case of need the couriers were impressed into the Grey Company, the Angle's main combat force, as any Rangers on hand would be as well.

Aravir was on single patrol for most of the year, occasionally dropping by to check up on the smials. The cause of his solitary patrols was "natural" - the two hobbits could not keep their hands off one another. When asked by Ashtuzual how could she be with whelp again, Gerasvinda said with a dreamy, glazed look in her eyes:

"We love one another almost too much ..."

The other Rangers knew of the hideout and were asked to keep an eye on suspect tracks leading in that direction. Every fortnight or so Ashtuzual sought Aravir out in the wild with provisions prepared by Gerasvinda (_to keep him from wasting away in the wild_). She now rode Azog (whom she had expected to grow during the winter, as nobody had bothered to explain the difference between horses and ponies to her) with confidence. He caught himself looking forward to her visits. He liked having the orcess along. Sometimes Aravir pondered on how she had changed – from a scared semi-feral child two years ago to a – to a young adult, he supposed – at present.

Eru bless the hobbits for their influence on her, he thought. Either it was too soon for her, or she was too young then, or the dwarrows' energetic manner of doing things simply cowered her, but the winter in the settlement to the north of the Lake Evendim had a much lesser "civilising" impact on the orcess than he had hoped for. He himself knew shit about children, girls in particular. That was a custom made job for Honey - but there was no reason why he should neglect his henhouse for the orcess. He, a bachelor, was expendable, however - he thought wryly. Some might even say - _the boy will get experience, hurr hurr_ - he chuckled to himself. The hobbits, however, who on a good day could barely intimidate a rabbit, were a marvellous influence on her. He chuckled to himself again – they were even picking up where his tutors had given up almost forty years previously, like hounding him for not taking off muddy boots in the hall. They had even roped Ashtuzual into their efforts– he smiled at the memory of being chased out of the kitchen by the red eyed mite.

2983, April, Breeland, Bree

Aravir was thirsty. He knew he should be heading back south as soon as his shopping was done but it was a very sunny and hot April day. He succumbed to temptation and entered the Prancing Pony. To force himself to keep the visit short he asked for his horse not to be unsaddled. One saddlebag held Advanced Midwifery Illustrated as Gersvinda's mid-way baby bump rivalled Inzilbeth's efforts in this department. He sighed, he hadn't seen Inzi nor her girls for over two years. Maybe this winter, if the hobbits kept their hands on the blanket ... He shook melancholy off himself and focused on the pint of ale, listening to Breelanders patter nonsense among themselves. The topic of the day was the passage of a group of Elves westwards and this phenomena's impact on the local ecology. Before he finished his drink the list included the Fey Folks' "withering gaze" having withered Stockinger's strawberries (although the frost from two morning's back was also a suspect), their "baleful eye" had brought about the miscarriage of Goodwife Cottonburrs' cow, and "miasma of pestilence" had made milk turn at three farms along their route. Aravir was still giggling when passing the gate on his way south.

2983, July/August, south of Barrow Downs, middle of nowhere

In July Tarkil brought letters to Sarn Ford and later sought out Aravir. He was in no hurry, the missives being standard "nothing to report" reports, so he lingered waiting for Ashtuzual to show up. He evidently missed her. When she found their camp he couldn't get enough of her company. The orcess had got over her disappointment that she would not be able to assist Inzilbeth due to the secrecy of the Rangers' "den", especially that she had a ready-to-pop Gerasvinda on hand. She was anxious to get back, waiting for Tarkil to leave and thus to strike out together, but Honey dawdled, finding all sorts of excuses to put off his return. One day it was the horse walking funny, the other day it looked like it could rain later ...

Watching Ashtuzual fidgeting, and thinking about Inzilbeth, who had her husband at her side when in labour one time out of three, made Aravir explode.

"Tarkil, what the fuck are you still doing here? Don't make me pull the father-in-law card on you, 'cause I finally will. That's MY daughter who'll be bleeding and shitting herself to bring your latest child into the world - _my grandchild_- and you are to be there holding her hand and letting her call you every filthy name she can think of. Or cringing outside the door hearing her scream in pain! Do you understand? Scoot!"

Ashtuzual actually thought she heard Master Aravir growl and those horrible blue eyes of his looked worse than ever. She was astonished ... Tarkil's _shauk_ was Aravir's whelp? With whom?

Tarkil tried to defend himself against the glare and verbal onslaught with some mumbled excuses about Aravir looking at Ashtuzual – or was it Ashtuzual looking at Aravir – neither the Ranger nor the orc cared to listen and sent off the expectant and inexplicably reluctant father on his way to the Angle.

"Aravir" – two years of pleas and the hobbits' variety of Westron, with most honorifics dropped, and growing awareness that she was not a _snaga_ had finally cured her of addressing the two Rangers as "Master".

"Aravir, is Tarkil's _shauk_ your daughter? You often told me you are not married so I should ask Hartmut or Tarkil about certain things ... like how a man boinks a female with a big baby bump - and you never said a word about having whelps."

The ranger smiled at her and patted the ground at his side. Once she was snuggled against him and wrapped under arm he said that it is a quite long story. His memory went almost twenty years back ...

()()()()()()()()

Aravir had befriended Inzilbeth the moment she arrived at the Angle on a hard ridden, wounded horse and with Tarkil's spare shirt on her back. He fell in love - so to speak – with her determination. Of how she overcame her fear to accomplish what she wanted. He helped her find her legs in the Angle, assisted with her Sindarin, correcting her errors without jeer nor malice. He was unashamedly proud of himself for resolving Inzilbeth's serious matrimony related problem which had come up just after Tarkil proposed. Her problem was the lack of relatives, of someone to represent her in legal capacity, as she was not of age. The lack of relatives to chaperone her about was a minor mater. She could not be adopted by Tarkil's parents –who'd be happy to do so - as that would make her his sister, making the whole exercise moot. He walked into the problem being discussed at a friendly get together.

Aravir simply said:

"I see three adult men here", as besides Aithon and Tarkil their neighbour – Beren – was also present.

"I call upon you as witnesses".

He could see that she was beginning to worry about what was happening, as she did not know nor understand where it was heading. Inzilbeth was not alone – he saw similar expressions of surprise or bewilderment in the eyes of others too.

Aravir cleared his throat and began in solemn voice and stone face:

"Inzilbeth, orphan, of no known guardians, not of age, do you accept me, Aravir son of Arador, as your guardian? From which you would be given care and protection like from father to daughter, and to which you shall give your devotion and obedience as from daughter to father? Should you say yes before these witnesses – Beren son of Aegon, Aithon son of Megilagor and Tarkil son of Aithon, we shall become as parent and child. What says you?"

Startled and not sure if she was fully understanding the situation she looked towards those she knew had her welfare at heart – she looked like a startled sparrow - Tarkil looked as confused as she did, while the more worldly Aithon was smiling broadly and giving her a nod. She meekly said:

"Yes."

Aravir walked up to her, embraced and kissed three times on the cheeks and then on the forehead. Still holding her he glared at her intended, making Tarkil squirm.

"If you harm her it's to Mordor with you!" – and his stern demeanour cracked and he bellowed in laughter.

- "Shoo, outside, the two of you, to the garden, take a walk, hold hands, whatever, I'll be looking through the window" – and began to laugh again.

Later, bored like an ice-hole fishing goblin Aravir trailed his best friend Tarkil and newly acquired daughter Inzilbeth. He contemplated the sky, the flying birds, the clouds, the grass swaying on the wind. He was ecstatic to find a freshly painted barn along their route, which he thoroughly examined. The young ranger did everything to walk in the same direction yet not look at the courting pair. Not that they would had noticed him. Him or a troll or two, they'd not notice anything. They were so disgustingly smitten that Aravir felt like intruding at their privacy, even at fifty paces. He neared a group of close to a dozen people, of mixed ages and sex, standing along the path the betrothed pair had taken. As he was not glaring daggers at the male component of the couple in front of him – which was the customary stance of a girl's older brother - he was dismissed as a simple passerby. He was drawn to events around him by overhearing:

"His father married that half Breelander girl, and like father like son, the young one picked up some bint in the south. Shocking! Absolutely no regard for the blood of Numenor."

"And so many pretty, unmarried girls around. Take Finduilas, for starters. She's ..."

"Or Invriniel, barely thirty and a widow for two years now. And without a bairn to remember Hurin by."

"Scandalous"

Watching freshly painted barns gave him a headache and shortened his temper. He started to give the group the eye. Slowly, one by one he attracted their attention.

"That "bint" is my daughter. That makes her a descendant of Earendil and Elwing. Have a nice day!" – He snarled and trudged on, after calming down trying to distract himself by counting the balls of mistletoe on the nearest linden tree. But soon he could not get his mind of the germ of truth in the mutterings of the indignant bunch he had passed – there _were_ many unmarried girls in the Angle.

()()()()()()

- "And this is how Inzi is my daughter, although I've never had a wife."

The orcess nodded – the concept was not alien to her, there being orc couples bringing up orphaned sprogs as their own. But she could not understand why should he claim a lass of breeding age as his own. She'll ask him to explain that tomorrow. Feeling safe in his warmth she drifted asleep.

Having Ashtuzual next to him felt good. He adjusted his position as to feel more of her and to give her a better sleeping position. Wrapping her in his cloak and curling his arm around her lithe body Aravir slipped into a Ranger's watchful sleep.

AN: in my headcanon hobbits gestate six months.

Tarkil made it on time to be at the birth of Indis, their fourth daughter. Both mother and baby are in good form, thank you.

Chapter inspired and co-written by the indefatigable muse of TommyGinger


	16. XVI - Narrative, dialogue and Cliffy!

July to year end 2983, early 2984

Riding towards the Angle Tarkil felt a mix of anger, shame, relief and apprehension. And growing awareness of having behaved like an idiot. He was angry at his best friend and foster daughter (_as he thought of her_) as they had chased him away. He was ashamed that they chased him away to perform his duty as husband and father. He was relieved as he had been sent on his way to do his duty, that the decision he could not take had finally been made for him. And he was worried of what will be the outcome of what he saw blooming in front of his eyes. He _knew_ that he should have gone back days before, but he could _not_ bring himself to leave Ashtuzual and Aravir together. He saw the way one looked at the other, he saw how they sought physical contact. The touches in themselves were perfectly ordinary and absolutely not deserving of the term "lascivious" or "lusting", "romantic" even, but nonetheless screamed "mutual attraction" at him. He suspected that they themselves were unawares of being on a runaway wain with bolting oxen from friendship to love. But there was nothing he could do about it. And he felt stupid as not only were they adults (_he was not sure about Ashtuzual's age, but considering what she had been through she should be treated as one_) but they spent one winter under a single roof together already and were to spend another. Really stupid of him of him to set up camp and watch them if they are sticking to holding hands only. Particularly stupid with having a wife about to go into labour. He hoped that Inzilbeth will forgive him his wavering someday. But still he could not stop worrying what will happen to the youngsters when others learn of their liaison? Will they be killed outright, perceived as equalling Morgoth's perversion of the elves? What about children ...

Or maybe he was just seeing things? Maybe he was worrying about things which not only had not yet come to pass, may never come to pass at all? What was certain was that Inzilbeth was due any week now – that's what he should be preoccupied about ...

()()()()()()()

Early August brought the birth of Lothar and Gunthar to Hersvinda and Hartmut. Unbeknownst to the inhabitants of the Smials of the Exiles two weeks later Inzilbeth followed suit with Indis. In the autumn Aravir cashed in a favour with the Captain in charge of the Sarn Ford station and – tearing Ashtuzual away from the twins and long fully recovered hobbitess – they rode north to visit their dwarrow acquaintances. They were greeted with open arms and discovered that they had been lucky – this was to be last or penultimate season of the settlement.

The duo then rode back to Bree and ultimately to the Smials. But this was not the end of a busy autumn for the blue eyed Ranger. He left the orcess with the hobbits and – passing through Bree to collect bespoken gifts – he went to the Angle, the secret Dunedain den (_as he and Tarkil took to jokingly call it after the orcess_) which he had left in the spring of 2981. He hadn't planned for being almost three years away. He arrived with the first snows.

In a whirlwind of activity he rushed through meetings with family and friends, catching up on births, deaths, marriages – correspondence hadn't kept him fully in touch with happenings among the Dunedain.

()()()()()()()

"You fucking orc now?"

Aravir whirled around in the courtyard of the Council Tower.

"What fucked up scheme now? Breed us to Morgoth's abominations? After you've shed Trollish tears over the fate of unwed or widowed Daughters of Numenor? Tighter cunny for small dick?" - The speaker sneered at the ranger. He was taller by almost a head and looked like a handsomer copy of Tarkil.

"Switched brains with your cock but still talking? Are you fucking with me just for the jollies or have you something to say?"

"Just to tell you I'm keeping an eye on what you are doing. You and that half-wit mongrel breeding brother of mine."

"Thannor, saying shit like that is gonna get you killed someday."

"I have a sword too, Aravir ..."

()()()()()()

"I ran into your other son this morning, Aithon. He is asking me to kill him."

The older man sighed.

"One son has too little ambition, yet I find him so easy to love. To other one has too much and I find him hard to love. And it pains me how they won't speak to one another. Neither Tarkil nor Thannor ever told me what happened during their courier run to the Chieftain, in Gondor at that time. Instead of coming back together, a worn and torn Tarkil shows up first, with Inzilbeth. Elbereth bless her, she's been a joy to me and I love her too, but I feel that she is somehow related with why Thannor – returning several weeks later – has ever avoided the two of them. Almost twenty years have passed and I still do not know what had passed between them. Neither Thannor, Tarkil nor Inzilbeth have said a thing."

After a moment the retired ranger asked:

"And what did Thannor say to you this time?"

"As to why they are not on speaking terms I'm kept in the dark by them just as you are, Sir. As to what Thannor is doing to me – he is taking my ideas to save us from dying out, from killing ourselves by our own hand as personal attacks. As if my suggestions were somehow insulting to him personally. I can understand dislike or rejection of my proposals – but he really takes it personally. He adds personal hatred to politics. One day his insults will make me snap and I'll kill him - even if that gets me exiled. Sometimes I'm confused if the notions he put before the Council through like minded Elders are what he believes in, or simply are the opposite of what I suggest we do."

()()()()()()()()

Aravir kept the highlight of the visit for the end. He stayed for two days with Tarkils' family, in his confusing capacity of father in law and grandfather. He preferred the girls calling him uncle. After bestowing kisses and gifts on everybody, and after causing two cases of regurgitation and one case of diarrhoea - too much candy - he left for the Smials. On the way back he mulled over Thannor's spiteful words - _"You fucking orc now?"_

His smial was dark and cold when he opened the door. He immediately ran to that of the hobbits, noting that there was light inside. He had his heart in his throat. He approached cautiously, with a racing pulse and a hand on his sword. Everything about the door looked all right.

He listened trying to discern what was going on inside. He thought he heard sniffing.

The door flew open and Ashtuzual flung herself at him, sobbing into his chest.

"I smelt you! I knew it was you! Never, never leave me alone again ..."

AN:

Trollish tears - every universe needs its "crocodile tears" - here is my contribution to ME


	17. XVII - And they slept together

AN: **A short, sappy chapter where nothing happens. So:**

_"Nothing to see here, move along, wait for the action packed and sizzling with plot progression chapter XVIII. Move along, nothing to see here ... "_

2984, Smials of the Exiles

He hugged her closely, overjoyed that she was alive and well.

"The children are asleep. I'm feeding the twins a watery gruel but they cry so much ... this isn't milk and I'm not their mother." She sniffed. "Everything will be better now that you are here." She sniffed and swallowed.

"They are dead. Hartmut wanted to check the traps. Usually it was me accompanying him him but Herasvind insisted to go. She wanted fresh air, she said. I stayed with the children. You know, like I often did. And this wasn't the first time they went to check the traps together. But they didn't come back. The children started to cry, I soothed them, saying that their ma will be back. But they still didn't show up. I fed them and they cried themselves to sleep. I ran to our smial, grabbed my sabre and bow and leathers and I followed their trail. A ...a ... a lynx got them. And then the small animals. There was not much left of them. I left them there and went back to the wee ones. I brought what I needed from our smial and I've been here for the last three days. It was awful being alone ..."

He soothed her and calmed down himself. After feeding and cleaning up Pansy and the twins they retired for the night. Ashtuzual was very clingy and demanded they sleep together.

"I must be able to touch you. I must feel that you are here."

Aravir was upset by how inappropriate it this would. Snuggling next to a campfire was one thing and fine, but under a roof – absolutely out of the question. Even if he also wanted to hold her and comfort her, this was improper. The short hobbit bed gave him a venue of escape.

"You sleep on the bed and I on the floor alongside." This turned out to be an acceptable compromise.

The orcess lay on her belly, with an arm free to drop next to the bed onto the ranger's body. He placed his hand on top of her slender hand and patted reassuringly. Their fingers interwined and he fell asleep.

He opened his eyes to an armful of orc and a wailing baby. Babies. During the night she dropped on him and he had drawn her into his arms in his sleep. He wrapped her in his blanket and got up to check on the little ones. She twisted and turned to cocoon herself in those parts of the bedding which he had warmed and which now smelt of him. He wondered how little she must had she slept between the accident and now.

He closed the door behind and went to re-kindle the fire to warm the water. After sniffing at the little sonorous bundles he added more water to the pot. Feigning ignorance as to further steps to take in such a situation he laid out the "used" swaddling in a conveniently located snowdrift just outside the door. It was just within range to lean over and place them there. Back in the bedroom he looked at the bump under his blanket.

"To Mordor with propriety ..." he muttered taking her blanket and laid besides her.

Twice more he got up to the wailing. He quickly discovered the trick of leaving a full pot of cold water on a small fire when going back to sleep. It was at least warm when got back to it, roused by a new round of wails. At sunrise he was exhausted and crawled under the - by then - shared blankets and curled himself around the girl, incapable of coherent thought. Sleep!

Ashtuzual woke up and gasped. She struggled against her constraints before she realised that it was Aravir holding her. This felt good. Her bursting bladder did not. She extracted herself slowly and then shot up.

The babies! They must be up to their eyes in shit and starving! Why are they SILENT!?

She rushed to check – they were breathing and her keen orcish nose did not pick up anything needing addressing. Had he ... ?

He did. The kitchen looked like plundered by orcs and there was a distinct lack of clean swaddling. The worrying thing was that she could not find the used swaddling. On a hunch she opened the door. The sight of a snowdrift bedecked with frozen fauntling droppings sparkling in the low December sun just outside the door left her speechless.

**intertwined**


	18. XVIII Legal stuff and go east, young man

January 2984, Buckland

"Bilbo, I'm so happy you happen to be at Brandy Hall at this time. Something strange and unexpected (Bilbo was well aware of how his fellow hobbits were enamoured of the strange and unexpected) has happened. Yesterday the watch at the gate at Hayfell was approached by one of the Big Folk. He introduced himself as a Ranger."

Bilbo listened; a Ranger contacting bounders was very unusual. They were sometimes seen by the Hobbits but contact was practically unheard off.

Rorimac continued.

"If you could, my dear cousin, go on a little _adventure_ and after his visit here track him back to his lair. He announced that he will be back in three days and asked to see me. "

()()()()()()()

Rorimac Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland – or Master of the Hall for short, was not a youngster anymore but age had given him wisdom to go along with a quick mind. He noted that the Ranger seemed to be fairly acquainted with smial dimensions and _almost_ did not hit on anything. Oddly, it was walking in the middle of the corridor which caused him the most problems. But still he had fewer collisions with architecture than his occasional Big Folk visitors from Bree did.

"Let us sit down and talk. There will be refreshments in a moment."

Sitting on a cushion and looking down on the chair-seated hobbit the Man introduced himself.

"I'm Shorty."

The Master of Buckland snorted and tried to keep his face composed. The man was like the tallest Big Folk of Bree and built like a bear.

"You jest, Master Ranger."

The Ranger smiled.

"I'm rather short for my tribe, hence the name."

Aravir quickly got down to business.

"In the summer of 2982 I chanced upon two hobbits, a lad and a lass, refurbishing a smial not far from Hayfell. I know a little of your customs so I was aware of them being sentenced to your most serious punishment – exile."

"Why are you sure of that."

"Tattooed hands, both of them."

Rorimac almost gasped – he had not heard about such a sentence being passed in the Shire for over a dozen years, yet – in his position as Master of Buckland, he should had been involved in the process. Such a sentence had to be passed jointly - besides seven Heads of Families - by the Thain, the Mayor and the Master of the Hall - and HE was the master of the Hall. And HE knew nothing about it! If the Man was talking the truth this meant the bossy bitch had bypassed him in the due process! Lalia had gone too far this time. He'll have Ferumbras' and the Mayor's hide for this!

"Do you know what was the cause of banishment?"

The ranger shook his head.

"They didn't look a threat (_as if they could to this half troll_), once they got over fear of me they were quite friendly, I deemed it needless to know. And doubtlessly impolite to ask." (_what Hobbit-like propriety, even if misguided_).

The hobbit put the sentencing issue aside for further action and bade the bearlike man continue. But he kept raking his head over events of 1582.

"Names?"

"Just their personal names – Hartmut and Herasvinda. Never gave me a family name. The problem is that they are dead."

This fully brought Rorimac back from 1582 to 1584 SR.

"A lynx killed them in the woods. There was not much to bury. I hope burial is appropriate for Hobbits. But the problem is that they left three – fauntlings, I believe the correct hobbit term is – behind. A girl of over a year and two boys of five months - Pansy, Lothar and Gunthar."

"My companion and I can take care of them to early March latest. But preferably by mid February we would like to see them fostered out, or let in somebody's care. Our lifestyle does not allow us to take care of toddlers let alone infants."

"We would like to ask you, master Hobbit, or plead with you with necessary – as we do not know what your customs towards children of the Exiled are - to take them in or foster out. Or for assistance in moving with them to Bree, where we'd hope to find a hobbit family ready to take them in."

()()()()()()()()

Bilbo followed the Ranger since his exit from the Hayfell gate. They crossed the frozen Withywindle. The Man set a furious pace as if chased by a pack of Balrog slaying Elven Heroes of the First Age. The experienced ex-company burglar stopped trying to keep him in his sight. Instead he moved alongside his suspected route and a hundred yards away from the Brandywine. After passing the wedge of the Old Forest – and not having cut across the man's tracks – he kept to the top of the old river terraces. After a few hours of a good march he was rewarded with the smell of smoke coming to him from the river.

He crept towards the river, blinded by the sunset reflecting on the snow but happy that he was downwind.

()()()()()()()()()()()

January 2984, The Angle

"Now that Yule is over and you are sweetly disposed, will you tell me why do you refuse to speak with your brother and his wife, and why have you insulted my friend Aravir?" – Aithon asked his son Thannor .

"I refuse to speak of that weak willed man, and that ... woman" – he spat through clenched teeth.

"As to Aravir, he will bring about our ruin like Ar-Pharazôn. That pervert – you heard about him dragging an orc around to fuck when he feels like? - has got it all wrong. We are not over stretched. And Elbereth forbid we need any "new blood" or whatever nice terms he uses. THAT is the problem – we are debased, not overstretched. We are not good enough for the job because of the blood of inferior people we now have. It is because of men like you, who couldn't keep in their pants for a nice pair of half-Breelander tits ... "

"How dare you speak like that of your mother! And such filth about Aravir!"

"I speak the truth! When Aranarth created the Rangers they kept Eriador as secure as it could be in the circumstances as they were of pure Numenorean blood! They were not mongrelised bastards of Numenor like we are! Where previously fifty Dunedain were enough, we now have to send eighty semi-Dunedain. And if that idiot Aravir sways the Council his way – over my dead body – then we'll have to send a hundred lesser men to do the job of those fifty. Our forefathers were up to it, we aren't! We should be calling ourselves HALFINGS!" – a moment for breath.

"Your choice of mother for me weakened us, the Dunedain. And it ruined my lineage – hadn't it not been for the Breelander blood you let into our lineage, two Council Elder's daughters would not have turned down my suit."

"If you courted them by saying 'nice tits, a good political match for me, marry me' – then I'm surprised you were only shown the door and did not have the hounds set out on you! How could I have raised such a crass cad! And I see that you are bonkers!"

"Call me what you may, licentious old man. And be careful not to get a brain storm fucking some half or quarter blood whore. And take heed - I need only to bring two more Elders to my side to vote through the limiting of officer positions to True Bloods and to ban marriages with inferior folk. And then ...

"I've heard enough" – Aithon roared. "You are totally off your rocker you are! You are a waste of time!" the older Ranger stormed away from the table.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Early February 2984, Buckland, Breeland

Rorimac had tracked down the case from mid 2982. On command of his mother, Lalia, the young Thain Ferumbras invoked the clause of Urgency as the Master of the Hall was in Bree on business – and replaced him with another six Heads of Family. Naturally nobody bothered to inform him of the fact afterwards. Due to the scandalous and disturbing nature of the crime – as well as confessions of the culprits and undeniable and growing evidence – the matter was dealt with quickly and discretely. The siblings Harmtut and Herasvinda Potthrower of Westfarthing were found guilty of incest and sentenced to Shunning and Banishment from the Shire Forevermore. The hush-hush nature of proceedings managed to keep the story from passing through the Eastfarthing into Buckland – an incredible feat in the gossip-rent Shire.

The Ranger and his short, disfigured wife – Fey Touched, he said, hence always in a head covering cloak - took up his offer to help them move to Staddle. Even if befriending Exiles – regardless of their crimes - went against all Hobbit sentiments, it was nonetheless nice. The pudginess of the fauntlings they passed over in tears (shed by the woman, unshed by the Man) was endearing and an undeniable sign of Good Character. In his mind a good turn merited another and he used his contacts to help set them up in Breeland. He was surprised at their choice of location but they explained they "liked being around hobbits". That was a first for Big Folk as far as the Master of Buckland was concerned, so he liked them even more for it.


	19. XIX - Elves are Evil!

Late Februray 2984 Staddle, Swine's Grin Tavern

Aravir had been free with coin and most of the patrons of the local cultural centre were in the best of humours. Although looked askance upon for being a never do good homeless Ranger, with a suspiciously cloak swaddled and mysteriously short wife, his purchase of property and being in good books of the generally respected Master of the Hall gave him some credit. He looked at the mostly hobbit clientele and reminded himself that they were no smarter than the Elder Council of the Angle. He glanced at his companions - at one elbow he had the half-terrified, half-giggling Ashtuzual. At his other elbow he had the "expert in making ploinking noises over ale" he had taken in on a week-long loan from the Prancing Pony. They had arranged a signal at which the "musician" was to underscore salient moments of the tale with an omnious TUM-TUM-DUM sound on his instrument.

Once he had the hobbits (and a few Big Folk) with) equipped with a pint and with attention on him he began the tale of the circumstances leading him and his wife (as he consistently presented Ashtuzual to the propriety obsessed but always with sex on their mind hobbits) ...

... and never before the Sun had shown on a prettier wee lass than Lothiriel. Her green eyes were like forest dales, her golden hair in curls like sheep's fleece, her skin as smooth like a pigs bladder, her teeth like snow capped Misty Mountains reflecting the setting Sun. Her lips were red and her cheeks rosy. But one day the Fey Folk appeared to curdle milk, cast the bad eye to stop the hens a' laying and the vilest deed of all – Aravir lowered his voice which made his listeners lean towards him - to cast magiks on wee babes (_gasps and shudders)._ And one of the fey folk – Glorfindel was his name, which means Bloody Spear in the language of the elves - was to sprinkle powdered toads' testicles mixed with crushed bone from the heart of a three horned elk over the bairn but Lothiriel smiled at him and that sweet vision stayed his fell hand and he could not rob her of her beauty. So he slinked back home to the elvish village in the swamps. And there he was greeted by the screech of an old crone, his wife, whose looks had faded over time and needed restoring with beauty stolen from Mannling babes – "yer so no getting any tonight, ye bumbling lout" – and so sleep he did in the shed with the garden tools_._ And three more times did he go the village of Springfield to rob Lothiriel of her looks for the old crone Galadriel, which means Cold Fish in the language of the elves. Although some say it means Cat Lady, after her graceful dancing in her youth. And two times more did he stay his fell hand over the innocent babe, but the third time he returned he committed the deed! YES! He had enough of the cold garden tool shed and he lusted for his wife's renewed beauty, for her hair long and golden, for her smooth thighs, for her folds covered with golden curls and dripping with juices like waterlogged moss, for her breasts smooth and hard like September apples, for her hips and buttocks firm like a three year heifer's udder, her lips red and full and sweet like strawberries. And so he hardened his already black heart and robbed the sweet babe of her fairness. The crone's face was again pale and fair, her eyes sparkling and teeth white and sharp. And whilst Glorfindel and Galadriel partook gleefully and joyfully in pleasures of the flesh, a young mother's heart broke when she cast her gaze upon her babe, so fair in the morning and so ugly in the eve! Her eyes now the colour of blood, her skin like tanned leather, her fingers once tipped with pink nails now ending in black claws. And pearl-like dainty teeth no more – now yellow and strong teeth with which she can take a bite out of a two by six plank. This is the tale of my wife's woe. We had been troth plighted while in our cribs to end a blood feud between our families – between the Rangers of the Star and the Rangers of the Rose (_Star and Rose on cloaks indicated_) - and had we not wed, streams of blood greater than Brandywine after spring snowmelt would have flowed. Yet our lands are now defiled, despoiled and desolated by fell trolls of the north, and thus we seek abode in Breeland. And that is why my wife tries to keep her face hidden.

A few strategically placed sobs during the telling and a well measured dose at the end did the story no harm.

()()()()()()()()()()

Bilbo, who had volunteered to come along with the Rorimac provided movers, was helping the odd couple with smial arrangement.

"Fine shortsword you have there, Mister Baggins. May I see the blade?"

For a moment the Hobbit did not know what to do. But after a pause he passed the long knife to the startled orcess.

"Wha ... wha ... why does it shine? It's glowing blue ..."

Bilbo checked if anybody is without earshot and whispered into the pointed ear:

"It's of old elvish make. It does that when there are orcs near."

She gave him a searching look.

"So you are not buying the cursed ugly Big Folk maiden story, then?"

Bilbo smiled remembering the outrageous tale of the curse and shook his head.

"No. And I've known what you are since I tracked Shorty back to the smials and I've seen you there. But I didn't need the blade for that. I've been around a bit and I know how an orc looks like. I might be the only hobbit that does. You see, I was at the Battle of Five Armies."

The name did not appear to ring a bell with Ashtuzual.

"Beyond the mountains, some thirty five years ago - orcs, dwarves, elves, eagles ... "

"Oh! Bolg's Fuckup!" – A fan girl's squee interrupted him.

"Every orc knows of that battle! You must be a great warrior!" – The orcess looked at the hobbit with newly found awe and admiration. Leaning into him she gushed "You must tell me all about it, of how brave you must've been ..."

Suddenly it dawned on her and she looked quizzically at the Shireling.

"You are not ratting me out? Why? Surely you've seen my folk at their worst."

"I've seen _you_ at your ordinary. I've seen you rubbing noses with Pansy. I've seen you around the mites at the smials when you didn't know you were watched. Yes, I spied on you two there. Then I've seen you around Hobbit and Big Folk alike. I can see that the Ranger trusts you. I can see that he likes you. That also counts for something. I'm sure you have quite a tale to tell. I'd love to listen to it should you decide to share. I have no right to ruin your life, or – as a hobbit would say, to upset your barrow."

Ashtuzual hugged him in silent gratitude.

After a moment she asked:

"You think he likes me?"

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Bree, a few years later

- "Yrch!" - The elf cried when he spotted Ashtuzual buying eggs at the market and drew his blade. His charge at her was instantly intercepted, however.

A Breelander matron, seeing what he was doing and the source of his reaction punched her stout finger in the warrior's chest and pushed him back.

- Want to finish what you started, eh, elf? 'Tis not enough what yer magiks did on 'er - she shoved him again - leaving 'er as ugly as she iz, now you wanna slit 'er throat, eh? - another shove - now uze not in yer elven realms and 'ere we iz proper folks – shove - and we don't let fey folks hurt innocent lasses - shove - so ye better put away that knife of yers ...

The last shove pushed the ancient elven warrior into the back of a pig led on a rope by Brambo Underhill. After a squeal and intricate footwork - the squeal was the pig's, not the First Born's, but the fancy footwork was shared - the veteran of the Last Alliance lost his footing and fell into the mire of the marketplace. Goodwife Magda Brambles was in fine form this day and bending over the blonde elf kept on _ASKING_ how would he feel if his own daughter had been subject to orc sorcery and sported the face of a battered sow and now some bad orc was out to gut her.


End file.
